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This  book  .s  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
Is!  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  t.ot  on  hold  U  may  be 
renewed  bv  bringing  it  to  the  hbrary.      ^ 


The  Woman  in  White 


A  NOVEL 


By  WILKIE  COLLINS 

Author  of  "Armadale,"  "The  Evil  Genius,"    "Man  and  Wife," 
"The  Moonstone,"  "The  New  Magdalen,"   "No  Name,"  etc.,  etc. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,       ^        ^       ^ 
^    ^     ^     PUBLISHERS.   NEW  YORK 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Archive 

in  2011  witii  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/womaninwhitenoveOOGoll 


r 


*'  Don't  cry,  my  love."  I  said,  and  dried  the  tears  that  were  gathering  in  her  eyes 
with  my  own  hand,  etc. — Page  138  . 

TKe  Womaia  v»  nTiite. 


r^^~^ 


.\K)(c? 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


he  Story  begun  hy  Walter  Hartright,  of  Clement' "i 
Inn,  Teacher  of  Drawing. 

1. 

This  is  the  story  of  what  a  Woman's  patience  can  en- 
ire,  and  what  a  Man's  resolution  can  achieve. 
If  the  machinery  of  the   Law  could  be  depended  on  to 
ithom  every  case  of  suspicion,  and  to  conduct  every  proo- 
fs  of  inquiry,  with  moderate  assistance  only  from   the 
ibricating  influences  of  oil  of  gold,  the  events  which  fill 
'  hese  pages  might  have  claimed  their  share  of  the  public 
attention  in  a  Court  of  Justice. 

But  the  Law  is  still,  in  certain  inevitable  eases,  the  pre- 

ingaged  servant  of  the  long  purse;  and  the  story  is  left  to 

joe  told,' for  the  first  time,  in  this  place.     As  the  Judge 

I  iniglit  once  have  heard  it,  so  the  Reader  shall  hear  it  now. 

pNo  circumstance  of  importance,  from  the  beginning  to  the 

lend  of  the  disclosure,  shall  be  related  on  hearsay  evidence. 

When  the  writer  of  these  introductory  lines  (Walter  Hart- 

' right,  by  name)  happens  to  be  more  closely  connected  than 

'Others  with  the  incidents  to  be  recorded,  he  will  describe 

tthem  in  his  own  person.     When  his  experience  fails,  he 

'will  retire  from  the  position  of  narrator;  and  his  task  will 

be  continued,  from  the  point  at  which  he  has  left  it  off,  by 

other  persons  who  can  speak   to  the  circumstances  under 

notice  from  their  own  knowledge,  just  as  clearly  and  posi- 

J;    tively  as  he  has  spoken  before  them. 

V,  Thus,  the  story  here  presented  will  be  told  by  more  than 
iV.  one  pen,  as  the  story  of  an  offense  against  the  laws  is  told 
f['  in  Court  by  more  than  one  witness — with  the  same  object, 
'.n  both  cases,  to  present  the  truth  ahvays  in  its  most  direct 
and  most  intelligible  aspect;  and  to  trace  the  course  of  one 
complete  series  of  events,  by  making  the  persons  who  have 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 


been  most  closely  connected  with  them,  at  each  successiye 
stage,  relate  their  own  experience,  word  for  word. 

Let  Walter  Hartright,  teacher  of  drawing,  aged  twenty- 
eight  years,  be  heard  first. 


IL 

It  was  the  last  day  of  July.  The  long  hot  summer  was 
drawing  to  a  close;  and  we,  the  weary  pilgrims  of  the  Lon- 
don pavement,  were  beginning  to  think  of  the  cloud-shad- 
ows on  the  corn-fields,  and  the  autumn  breezes  on  the  sea- 
shore. 

For  my  own  poor  part,  the  fading  summer  left  me  out  of 
health,  out  of  spirits,  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  out 
of  money  as  well.  Durkig  the  past  year,  I  had  not  man- 
aged my  professional  resources  as  carefully  as  usual;  and 
my  extravagance  now  limited  me  to  the  prospect  of  spend- 
ing the  autumn  economically  between  my  mother's  cottage 
at  Hampstead,  and  my  own  chambers  in  town. 

The  evening,  I  remember,  was  still  and  cloudy;  the 
London  air  was  at  its  heaviest;  the  distant  hum  of  the 
street  traffic  was  at  its  faintest;  the  small  pulse  of  the  life 
within  me  and  the  great  heart  of  the  city  around  me 
seemed  to  be  sinking  in  unison,  languidly  and  more  lan- 
guidly, with  thj  sinking  sun.  I  roused  myself  from  the 
book  which  I  was  dreaming  over  rather  than  reading,  and 
left  my  chambers  to  meet  the  cool  night  air  in  the  sub- 
urbs. It  was  one  of  the  two  evenings  in  every  week  which 
I  was  accustomed  to  spend  with  my  mother  and  my  sister. 
So  I  turned  my  steps  northward,  in  the  direction  of  Hamp-^ 
stead. 

Events  which  1  have  yet  to  relate  make  it  necessary  to 
mention  in  this  place  that  my  father  had  been  dead  some 
years  at  the  period  of  which  I  am  now  writing,  and  that 
my  sister  Sarah  and  I  were  the  sole  survivors  of  a  family 
of  five  children.  My  father  was  a  drawing-master  before 
me.  His  exertions  had  made  him  highly  successful  in  his 
profession;  and  his  aifectionate  anxiety  to  provide  for  the 
future  of  those  who  were  dependent  on  his  labors  had  im- 
pelled him,  from  the  time  of  his  marriage,  to  devote  to  the 
iiHtn-ing  of  his  life  a  much  larger  portion  of  his  income 
than  most  men  consider  it  necessary  to  set  aside  for  that 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WfllTE.  5 

purpose.  Thanks  to  his  aJuiiirable  prudence  and  self- 
deuial,  my  mother  and  sisier  weie  left,  after  his  death,  as 
independent  of  the  world  as  they  had  been  during  his  life- 
time. I  succeeded  to  his  connection,  and  had  every  reason 
to  fee]  grateful  for  the  prospect  that  awaited  me  at  my 
starting  in  life. 

The  quiet  twilight  was  still  trembling  ou  the  topmost 
ridges  of  the  heath;  and  the  view  of  London  be/ow  me  had 
sunk  into  a  black  gulf  iu  the  shadow  of  the  cloudy  night, 
when  I  stood  before  the  gate  of  my  mother's  cottage.  I 
had  hardly  rung  the  bell,  before  the  house-door  was  opened 
violently;  my  worthy  Italian  friend.  Professor  Pesca,  ap- 
peared in  the  servant's  place;  and  darted  out  joyously  to 
receive  me,  with  a  shrill  foreign  parody  on  an  English 
cheer. 

On  his  own  account,  and,  1  must  be  allowed  to  add,  on 
mine  also,  the  Professor  merits  the  honor  of  a  formal  in- 
troduction. Accident  has  made  him  the  starting-point  c.^ 
the  strange  family  story  which  it  is  the  purpose  of  these 
pages  to  unfold. 

i  had  first  become  acquainted  with  my  Italian  friend  by 
meeting  him  at  certain  great  houses,  where  he  taught  his 
own  language  and  I  taught  drawing.  All  I  then  knew  of 
the  history  of  his  life  was,  that  he  had  once  held  a  situation 
in  the  University  of  Padua;  that  he  had  left  Italy  for 
political  reasons  (the  nature  of  which  he  uniformly  de- 
clined to  mention  to  any  one);  and  that  he  had  been  for 
many  years  respectably  established  in  London  as  a  teacher 
of  languages. 

Without  being  actually  a  dwarf — for  he  was  perfectly 
well-proportioned  from  head  to  foot — Pesca  was,  I  think, 
the  smallest  human  being  I  ever  saw,  out  of  a  show-room. 
Remarkable  anywhere,  by  his  personal  appearance,  he  was 
still  further  distinguished  among  the  rank  and  file  of  man- 
kind by  the  harmless  eccentricity  of  his  character.  The 
ruling  idea  of  his  life  appeared  to  be,  that  he  was  bound  to 
show  his  gratitude  to  the  country  which  had  afl'orded  him 
an  asylum  and  a  means  of  subsistence,  by  doing  his  utmost 
to  turn  himself  into  an  Englishman.  Not  content  with 
paying  the  nation  in  general  the  compliment  of  invariably 
carrying  an  umbrella,  and  invariably  wearing  gaiters  and  a 
white  luit,  the  Professor  further  aspired  to  become  an  En- 
glishman iu  his  habits  and  amusen.ients,  as  well  as  in  iiisi 


6  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

personal  appearance.  Finding  us  distinguished,  as  a  na- 
tion, by  our  love  of  athletic  exercises,  the  little  man,  in  the 
innocence  of  his  heart,  devoted  himself  impromptu  to  all 
our  English  sports  and  pastimes,  whenever  he  had  the  op- 
portunity of  joining  them;  firmly  persuaded  that  he  could 
adopt  our  national  amusements  of  the  field,  by  an  effort 
of  will,  precisely  as  he  had  adopted  our  n&iional  gaiters 
and  our  national  white  hat. 

I  had  seen  him  risk  his  limbs  blindly  at  a  fox-hunt  and 
in  a  cricket-field;  and,  soon  afterward,  1  saw  him  risk  his 
life,  just  as  blindly,  in  the  sea  at  Brighton. 

We  had  met  there  accidentally,  and  were  bathing  to- 
gether. If  we  had  been  engaged  in  any  exercise  peculiar 
to  my  own  nation,  I  should,  of  course,  have  looked  after 
Pesca  carefully;  but,  as  foreigners  are  generally  quite  as 
well  able  to  take  care  of  themselves  in  the  v^^ater  as  En- 
glishmen, it  never  occurred  to  me  that  the  art  of  swim- 
ming might  merely  add  one  more  to  the  list  of  manly  ex- 
ercises which  the  Professor  believed  that  he  could  learn 
impromptu.  Soon  after  we  had  both  struck  out  from 
shore,  1  stopped,  finding  my  friend  did  not  gain  on  me, 
and  turned  round  to  look  for  him.  To  my  horror  and 
amazement,  I  saw  nothing  between  me  and  the  beach  but 
two  little  white  arms  which  struggled  for  an  instant  above 
the  surface  of  the  water,  and  then  disappeared  from  view. 
When  1  dived  for  him,  the  poor  little  man  was  lying  quiet- 
ly coiled  up  at  the  bottom,  in  a  hollow  of  shingle,  looking 
by  many  degrees  smaller  than  1  had  ever  seen  him  look 
before.  During  the  few  minutes  that  elapsed  while  I  was 
taking  him  in,  the  air  revived  him,  and  he  ascended  the 
steps  of  the  machine  with  my  assistance.  With  the  partial 
recovery  of  his  animation  came  the  return  of  his  wonderful 
delusion  on  the  subject  of  swimming.  As  soon  as  hie 
chattering  teeth  would  let  him  speak,  he  smiled  vacantly, 
and  said  he  thought  it  must  have  been  the  Cramp. 

When  he  had  thoroughly  recovered  himself  and  hart 
joined  me  on  the  beach,  his  warm  Southern  nature  brok( 
through  all  artificial  English  restraints  in  a  momenU 
He  overwhelmed  me  with  the  wildest  expressions  of  affec- 
tion— exclaimed  passionately,  in  his  exaggerated  Italiaii 
way,  that  he  would  hold  his  life,  henceforth,  at  my  dis- 
posal— and  declared  that  he  should  never  be  happy  agai.-i, 
until  he  had  found  an  opportunity  of  proving  his  gratii'^du 


THE    WOMAN"    IN"    WHITE.  7 

by  rendering  me  some  service  which  I  might  remember, 
on  my  side,  to  the  end  of  my  days. 

1  did  my  best  to  stop  the  torrent  of  his  tears  and  protes- 
lations,  by  persisting  in  treating  the  whole  adventure  as  a 
good  subject  for  a  joke;  and  succeeded  at  last,  as  I  im- 
agined, in  lessening  Pesca's  overwhelming  sense  of  obliga- 
lion  to  me.  Little  did  I  think  then — little  did  I  think 
afterward  when  our  pleasant  holiday  had  drawn  to  an  end 
—  that  the  opportunity  of  serving  me  for  which  my  grate- 
ful companion  so  ardently  longed,  was  soon  to  come;  that 
he  was  eagerly  to  seize  it  on  the  instant;  and  that,  by  so 
doing,  he  was  to  turn  the  whole  current  of  my  existence 
into  a  new  channel,  and  to  alter  me  to  myself  almost  past 
recognition. 

Yet,  so  it  was.  If  I  had  not  dived  for  Professor  Pesca, 
when  he  lay  under  water  on  his  shingle-bed,  I  should,  in 
all  human  probability,  never  have  been  connected  with  the 
story  which  these  pages  will  relate — I  should  never,  per- 
haps, have  heard  even  the  name  of  the  woman,  who  has 
lived  in  all  my  thoughts,  who  has  possessed  herself  of  all 
my  energies,  who  has  become  the  one  guiding  influence 
that  now  directs  the  purpose  of  my  life. 


HI. 

Pesca* s  faco  and  manner,  on  the  evening  when  we  con- 
fronted each  other  at  my  mother's  gate,  were  more  than 
pufScient  to  inform  me  that  something  extraordinary  had 
happened.  It  was  quite  useless,  however,  to  ask  him  for 
an  immediate  explanation.  I  could  only  conjecture,  while 
he  was  draggnig  me  in  by  both  hands,  that  (knowing  my 
habits)  he  had  come  to  the  cottage  to  make  sure  of  meet- 
ing me  that  night,  and  that  he  had  some  news  to  tell  of  an 
unusually  agreeable  kind. 

We  both  bounced  into  the  parlor  in  a  highly  abrupt  and 
undignified  manner.  My  mother  sat  by  the  open  window. 
laughiMg  and  fanning  herself.  Pesca  was  one  of  her  espe- 
cial faTorites;  and  his  wildest  eccentricities  were  always 
pardonable  in  her  eyes.  Poor  dear  soul!  from  the  first 
momer  t  when  she  found  out  that  the  little  Professor  was 
deeply  and  gratefully  attached  to  her  son,  she  opened  her 
heart  to  iiim  unreservedly  and  took  all  his  puzzling  for- 


8  THE    WOMAN     1\    WHITE. 

eign  peculiarities  for  granted,  without  so  much  as  attempt- 
ing to  understand  any  one  of  ilieni. 

My  sister  Sarali,  with  all  the  advantages  of  youth,  was, 
strangely  enough,  less  pliable.  She  did  full  justice  to 
Pesca's  excellent  qualities  of  heart,  but  she  could  not  ac- 
cepk  him  implicitly,  as  my  mother  accepted  him,  for  my 
sake.  Her  insular  notions  of  propriety  rose  in  perpetual 
revolt  agaiiist  Pesca's  constitutional  contempt  for  appear- 
ances: and  she  was  always  more  or  less  undisguisedly  aston- 
ished at  her  mother's  familiarity  with  the  eccentric  little 
foreigner.  I  have  observed,  not  only  in  my  sister's  casC; 
but  in  the  instances  of  others,  that  we  of  the  young  gen- 
eration are  nothing  like  so  hearty  and  so  impulsive  as  some 
of  our  elders.  1  constantly  see  old  people  flushed  and  ex- 
cited by  the  prospect  of  some  anticipated  pleasure  which 
altogether  fails  to  ruffle  the  tranquillity  of  their  serene 
grandchildren.  Are  we,  1  wonder,  quite  such  genuine 
boys  and  girls  now  as  our  seniors  were,  in  their  time.^  Hasi 
the  great  advance  in  education  taken  rather  too  long  a 
stride;  and  are  we,  in  these  modern  days,  just  the  least 
trifle  in  the  world  too  well  brought  up.'' 

Without  attempting  to  answer  those  questions  decisively, 
I  may  at  least  record  that  I  never  saw  my  mother  and  my 
sister  together  in  Posca's  society,  without  finding  my  moth- 
er much  the  younger  woman  of  the  two.  On  this  occasion, 
for  example,  while  the  old  lady  was  laughing  heartily  over 
the  boyish  manner  in  which  we  tumbled  into  the  parlor, 
Sarah  was  perturbedly  picking  up  the  broken  pieces  of  a 
tea-cup,  which  the  Professor  had  knocked  off  the  table  in 
his  precipitate  advance  to  meet  me  at  the  door. 

"  I  don't  know  what  would  have  happened,  Walter," 
said  my  mother,  "  if  you  had  delayed  much  longer.  Pesca 
has  been  half  mad  with  impatience;  and  I  have  been  haJf 
mad  with  curiosity.  The  Professor  has  brought  some  won- 
derful news  with  him,  in  which  he  says  you  are  concerned; 
and  he  has  cruelly  refused  to  give  us  the  smallest  hint  of  it 
till  his  friend  W^ilter  appeared." 

**  Very  provoking;  it  spoils  the  Set,"  murmured  Sarah 
to  herself,  mournfully  absorbed  over  the  ruins  of  the  broken 
cup. 

While  these  words  were  being  spoken,  Pesca,  happily 
and  fussily  uneonscijus  of  the  irreparable  wrong  which  the 
crockery  had  suffered  at  his  hands,  was  dragging  a  large 


THE    WOMAN-    tisr    WHITE.  0 

arm-chair  to  the  opposite  end  of  the  room,  so  as  to  com- 
ma?id  us  all  three,  in  the  character  of  a  public  speaker  ad- 
dressing an  audience.  Having  turned  the  chair  with  its 
back  toward  us,  he  jumped  into  it  on  his  knees,  and  ex- 
citably addressed  his  small  congregation  of  three  from  au 
impromptu  pulpit. 

"  Now,  my  good  dears/*  began  Pesca  (who  always  said 
"  good  dears  "  when  he  meant  "  worthy  friends  "),  "  listen 
to  me.  The  time  has  come — I  recite  my  good  news — I 
speak  at  last." 

"  Hear,  hear!"  said  my  mother,  humoring  the  joke. 

"  The  next  thing  he  will  break,  mamma,"  whispered 
Sarah,  "  will  be  the  back  of  the  best  arm-chair." 

"  I  go  back  into  my  life,  and  I  address  myself  to  the 
noblest  of  created  beings,"  continued  Pesca,  vehemently 
apostrophizing  my  unworthy  self,  over  the  top  rail  of  the 
chair.  "  Who  found  me  dead  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
(tlirough  Cramp);  and  who  pulled  me  up  to  the  top;  and 
what  did  1  say  when  I  got  into  my  own  life  and  my  own 
clothes  again?" 

"  Much  more  than  was  at  all  necessary,"  I  answered,  as 
doggedly  as  possible;  for  the  least  encouragement  in  con- 
nection with  this  subject  invariably  let  loose  the  Professor's 
emotions  in  a  flood  of  tears. 

"  I  said,"  persisted  Pesca,  "  that  my  life  belonged  to 
my  dear  friend,  Walter,  for  the  rest  of  my  days — and  so  it 
does.  I  said  that  I  should  never  be  happy  again  till  I  had 
found  the  opportunity  of  doing  a  good  Something  for  Wal- 
ter— and  I  have  never  been  contented  with  myself  till  this 
most  blessed  day.  Now,"  cried  the  enthusiastic  little  man 
at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "  the  overflowing  happiness  bursts 
out  of  me  at  every  pore  of  my  skin,  like  a  perspiration;  for 
on  my  faith,  and  soul,  and  honor,  the  something  is  done  at 
last,  and  the  only  word  to  say  now,  is — Right-all-right!" 

It  may  be  necessary  to  explain,  here,  that  Pesca  prided 
hinuielf  on  being  a  perfect  Englishman  in  his  language,  as 
well  as  in  his  dress,  manners,  and  amusements.  Having 
picked  up  a  few  of  our  most  familiar  colloquial  expressions, 
he  scattered  them  about  over  his  conversation  whenever 
they  happened  to  occur  to  him,  turning  them,  in  his  high 
reli.~;h  for  their  sound  and  his  general  ignorance  of  their 
sense,  into  couipound  words  and  repetitions  of  his  own,  and 


10  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

always  running  them  into  each  other,  as  if  they  consistec 
of  one  long  syllable. 

"  Among  the  fine  London  houses  where  I  teach  the  lan- 
guage of  my  native  country/'  said  the  Professor,  rushing 
into  his  long-deferred  explanation  without  another  word  of 
preface,  *'  there  is  one,  mighty  fiue,  in  the  big  place  called 
Portland.  You  all  know  where  that  is?  Yes,  yes — course- 
of-course.  The  fine  house,  my  good  dears,  has  got  inside 
>t  a  fine  family.  A  Mamma,  fair  and  fat;  three  young 
Misses,  fair  and  fat;  two  young  Misters,  fair  and  fat;  and 
a  Papa,  the  fairest  and  the  fattest  of  all,  who  is  a  mighty 
merchant,  up  to  his  eyes  in  gold — a  fiue  man  once,  but  see- 
ing that  he  has  got  a  naked  head  and  two  chins,  fine  no 
longer  at  the  present  time.  Now  mind!  I  teach  the  sub- 
lime Dante  to  the  young  Misses,  and  ah! — my-soul-bless- 
my-soul! — it  is  not  in  human  language  to  say  how  the  sub- 
lime Dante  puzzles  the  pretty  heads  of  all  three!  No  mat- 
ter— all  in  good  time — and  the  more  lessons  the  better 
for  me.  Now  mind!  Imagine  to  yourselves  that  I  am 
teaching  the  young  Misses  to-day,  as  usual.  We  are  all 
four  of  us  down  together  in  the  Hell  of  Dante.  At  the 
Seventh  Circle — but  no  matter  for  that;  all  the  Circles  are 
alike  to  the  three  young  Misses,  fair  and  fat — at  the 
Seventh  Circle,  nevertheless,  my  pupils  are  sticking  fast; 
and  I,  to  set  them  going  again,  recite,  explain,  and  blow 
myself  up  red-hot  with  useless  enthusiasm,  when — a  creak 
of  boots  in  the  passage  outside,  and  in  comes  the  golden 
Papa,  the  mighty  merchant  with  the  naked  head  and  the 
two  chins.  Ha!  my  good  dears,  I  am  closer  than  you 
think  for  to  the  business,  now.  Have  you  been  patient  so 
far?  or  have  you  said  to  yourselves,  '  Deuce-what-the- 
deuce!     Pesca  is  long-winded  to-night?'  " 

W«  declared  that  we  were  deeply  interested.  The  Pro- 
fessor went  on: 

"  In  his  hand,  the  golden  Papa  has  a  letter;  and  after 
he  has  made  his  excuse  for  disturbing  us  in  our  Infernal 
Kegion  with  the  common  mortal  Business  of  the  house,  he 
addresses  himself  to  the  three  young  Misses,  and  begins,  as 
you  English  begin  everything  in  this  blessed  world  that  you 
have  to  say,  with  a  great  0.  '  0,  my  dears,'  says  the 
mighty  merchant,  '  I  have   got   here   a   letter   from   my 

friendj  Mr. '  (the  name  has  slipped  out  of  my  mind; 

but  no  matter;  we  shall  come  back  to  that;  yes,  yes — right- 


TKi"     UOMAN     IN    WHITE.  11 

all-rig..  ,.    80  the  Papa  says,  '  I  have  got  a  letter  from  my 
fneud,  the  Mister;  aud  he  wants  a  recommend  from  me, 
of  a  drawing-master,  to  go  down  to  h;s  house  \i\  die  coun- 
try.'     My-soul-bless-my  soul!    when  I  heard  -.he  golden 
Papa  say  those  words,  if  1  had  been  big  enough  :o  reach  up 
to  him,  I  should  have  put  my  arms  round  his  necii,  and 
pressed  him  to  my  bosom  in  a  long  aud  grateful  hug!     As 
it  was,  I  only  bounced   upon  my  chair.     My  seat  was  on 
thorns,  and  my  soul  was  on  fire  to  speak;  out  I  held  my 
tongue,  and  let  Papa  go  on.     '  Perhaps  you  know,'  says 
this  good  man  of  money,  twiddling  his  friend's  letter  this 
way  and  that,  in  his  golden  fingers  and  ihnmbs,  'perhaps 
you  know,  my  dears,  of  a  drawing-master  that  I  can  recom- 
mend.P'     The  three  young  Misses   J.l  look  at  each  other, 
and  then  say  (with  the  indispensable  gieat  0  to  begin)  '  0, 
dear  no,  Papa!    But  here  is  Mr.  Pesca — '    hi  the  mention 
of  myself  I  can  hold  iio  longer— the  ihougiit  of  you,  my 
good  dears,  mounts  like  blood  to  my  head~I  start  from 
my  seat,  as   if   a  spike  had  grown   up  from  the  ground 
through  the  bottom  of  my  chair— 1  address  myself  to  the 
mighty  merchant,  aud  I  say  (English  phrase),  '  Dear  sir,  I 
have  the  man!     The  first  and  foremost  drawing-master  of 
the   world!     Recommend   him   by   the  post   to-night,  and 
send   him  off,  bag  and  baggage  (English  phrase  again — 
ha?),  send  him  off,  bag  and  baggage,  by  the  train  to-mor- 
row!'    'Stop,  stop,'  says  Papa,  'is  he  a  foreigner,  or  an 
Englishman?'     'English  to  the  bone  of  his  back,' I  an- 
swer.    '  Respectable?'  says  Papa.     '  Sir,'  I  say  (for  this 
last  question  of  his  outrages  me,  and  1  have  done  being 
familiar  with  him),  '  sir!  the  immortal  fire  of  genius  burns 
in  this  Englishman's  bosom,  and,  what  is  m^re,  his  father 
had  it  before  him!'     '  Never  mind,'  says  the  golden  bar- 
barian of  a  Papa, '  never  mind  about  his  genius,  Mr.  Pesca. 
We  don't  want  genius  in  this  country,  unless  it  is  accom- 
panied by  respectability — and  then  we  are  very  glad  to  have 
it,  very  glad   indeed.       Can   your   friend   produce   testi- 
monials— letters  that  speak  to  his  character?'     I  wave  my 
hand  negligently.     '  Letters?'  I  say.     '  Ha!  my-soul-bless- 
aij-soul!     I  should  think  so,  indeed!     Volumes  of  letters 
and  portfolios  of  testimonials,  if  you  like?'     '  One  or  two 
will  do,'  says  this  man  of  phlegm" and  money.     '  Let  him 
send  them  to  me,  with  his  name  and  address.     And — stop, 
Btop,  Mr.  Pesca — before  you  go  to  your  friend,  you  hi»d 


12  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

better  take  a  note.'  'Bank-note!'  I  say,  indignantly. 
'  iSlo  bank-note,  if  you  please,  till  my  brave  Englishman 
has  earned  it  first.'  '  13ank-iiote!'  says  Papa,  in  a  great 
surprise;  '  who  talked  of  bank-note?  1  mean  a  note  of  (he 
terms — a  memorandum  of  what  he  is  expected  to  do.  Go 
on  with  your  lesson,  Mr.  Pesca,  and  1  will  give  you  the 
necessary  extract  from  my  friend's  letter.'  Down  sits  the 
man  of  merchandise  and  money  to  his  pen,  ink,  and  paper; 
and  down  1  go  once  again  into  the  Hell  of  Dante,  with  my 
three  young  Misses  after  me.  In  ten  minutes'  time  the 
note  is  written,  and  the  boots  of  Papa  are  creaking  them- 
selves away  in  the  passage  outside.  From  that  moment, 
on  my  faith,  and  soul,  and  honor,  I  know  nothing  more! 
The  glorious  thought  that  1  have  caught  my  opportunity  at 
last,  and  that  my  grateful  service  for  my  dearest  friend  in 
the  .world  is  as  good  as  done  already,  flies  up  into  my  head 
and  makes  me  drunk.  How  I  pull  my  young  Misses  and 
myself  out  of  our  Infernal  Region  again,  how  my  other 
business  is  done  afterward,  how  my  little  bit  of  dinner 
slides  itself  down  my  throat,  1  know  no  more  than  a  man 
in  the  moon.  Enough  for  me,  tJ-=it  here  I  am,  with  the 
mighty  merchant's  note  in  my  hand,  as  large  as  life,  as  hot 
as  fire,  and  as  happy  as  a  king!  Ha!  hal  ha!  right-right- 
right-all-vight!" 

Here  the  Professor  waved  the  memorandum  of  terms 
over  his  head,  and  ended  his  long  and  voluble  narrative 
with  his  shrill  Italian  parody  on  an  Engiish  cheer. 

My  mother  rose  the  moment  he  had  done,  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  brightened  eyes.  She  caught  the  little  man 
warmly  by  both  hands. 

"  My  dear,  good  Pesca,"  she  said,  "  I  never  doubted 
your  true  affection  for  Walter — but  1  am  more  than  ever 
persuaded  of  it  now!" 

"  1  am  sure  we  are  very  much  obliged  to  Professor  Pesca, 
for  Walter's  sake,"  added  Sarah.  She  half  rose,  while  she 
spoke,  as  if  to  approach  the  arm-chair,  in  her  turn:  but, 
observing  that  Petca  was  rapturously  kissing  my  mother's 
hands,  looked  serious,  and  lesumed  her  seat.  "  If  the 
familiar  little  man  treats  my  mother  in  that  way,  how  will 
he  treat  me  ?" 

Faces  sometimes  tell  truth;  and  that  was  unquestionably 
the  thought  in  Sarah's  mind,  as  she  sat  down  again. 

Although  1  myself  was  gratefully  sensible  of  the  kindness 


THE    WOMaK    IX    WHITE.  13 

of  Pesca's  motives,  my  spirits  were  hanlly  so  much  elevated 
as  they  ought  to  have  been  by  the  pi-ospect  of  future  em- 
ployment now  placed  before  me.  When  the  Professor  had 
quite  done  with  my  mother's  hand,  and  when  1  had  warm- 
ly thanked  him  for  his  interference  on  my  behalf,  I  asked 
to  be  allowed  to  look  at  the  note  of  terms  which  his  re- 
spectable patron  had  drawn  up  for  my  inspection. 

Pesca  handed  me  the  paper,  with  a  triumphant  flourish 
of  the  hand. 

*'  Read!"  said  the  little  man,  majestically.  "  I  promise 
you,  my  friend,  the  writitig  of  the  golden  Papa  speaks  with 
a  tongue  of  trumpets  for  itself.^' 

The  note  of  terms  was  plain,  straightforward,  and  com- 
prehensive, at  any  rate.     It  informed  me: 

First,  That  Frederick  Fairlie,  Esquire,  of  Limmeridge 
House,  Cumberland,  wanted  to  engage  the  services  of  a 
thoroughly  competent  drawing-master,  for  a  period  of 
four  months  certain. 

Secondl}^  That  the  duties  wnich  the  master  was  expected 
to  perform  would  be  of  a  twofold  kind.  He  was  to  super- 
intend the  instruction  of  two  young  ladies  in  the  art  of 
painting  in  water-colors:  and  he  was  to  devote  his  leisure 
time,  afterward,  to  the  business  of  repairing  and  mounting 
a  valuable  collection  of  drawings,  which  had  been  suffered 
to  fall  into  a  condition  of  total  neglect. 

Thirdly,  That  the  terms  offered  to  the  person  who  should 
undertake  and  properly  perform  these  duties,  were  four 
guineas  a  week;  that  he  was  to  reside  at  Limmeridge 
House;  and  that  he  was  to  be  treated  there  on  the  footing 
of  a  gentleman. 

Fourthly,  and  lastly.  That  no  person  need  think  of  ap- 
plying for  this  situation,  unless  he  could  furnish  the  most 
unexceptionable  references  to  character  and  abilities.  The 
references  were  to  be  sent  to  Mr.  Fairlie 's  friend  in  Lon- 
don, who  was  empoweerd  to  conclude  all  necessary  arrange- 
ments. These  instructions  were  followed  by  the  name  and 
address  of  Pesca's  employer  in  Portland  Place— and  there 
the  note,  or  memorandum,  ended. 

The  prospect  which  this  offer  of  an  engagement  held  out 
was  certainly  an  attractive  one.  The  employment  was 
likely  to  be  both  easy  and  agreeable;  it  was  proposed  to  me 
at  the  autumn  time  of  the  year,  when  1  was  least  occupied; 
and  the  terms,  judging  by  my  personal  experience  in  my 


14  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

profession,  were  surprisingly  liberal.  I  knew  this;  I  knevf 
that  I  ought  to  consider  myself  very  fortunate  if  I  succeed- 
ed in  securing  the  offered  employment — and  yet,  no  sooner 
had  1  read  the  memorandum  than  I  felt  an  inexplicable 
unwillingness  within  me  to  stir  in  the  matter.  I  had  never 
:n  the  whole  of  my  previous  experience  found  my  duty  and 
liiy  inclination  so  painfully  and  so  unaccountably  at  vari- 
ance as  I  found  them  now. 

"  Oh,  Walter,  your  father  never  had  such  a  chance  as. 
this!"  said  my  mother,  when  she  had  read  the  note  of 
terms  and  had  handed  it  back  to  me. 

"  Such  distinguished  people  to  know,"  remarked  Sarah, 
straightening  herself  in  her  chair;  "  and  on  such  gratify^ 
ing  terms  of  equality  too!" 

"  Yes,  yes;  the  terms,  in  every  sense,  are  tempting 
enough,"  1  replied,  impatiently.  "  But  before  1  send  in 
my  testimonials,  1  should  like  a  little  time  to  consider — " 

"  Consider!"  exclaimed  my  mother.  "  Why,  Walter, 
what  is  the  matter  with  you.'"' 

"  Consider!"  echoed  my  sister.  "  What  a  very  extra- 
ordinary thing  to  say,  under  the  circumstances!" 

"  Consider!"  chimed  in  the  Professor.  "  What  is  there 
to  consider  about?  Answer  me  this?  Have  you  not  been 
complaining  of  your  health,  and  have  you  not  been  longing 
for  what  you  call  a  smack  of  the  country  breeze?  VVell! 
there  in  your  hand  is  the  paper  that  offers  you  perpetual 
choking  mouthfuls  of  country  breeze,  for  four  months' 
time.  Is  it  not  so?  Ha!  Again — you  want  money.  Well! 
Is  four  golden  guineas  a  week  nothing?  My-soul-bless-my- 
soul!  only  give  it  to  nie — and  my  boots  shall  creak  like  the 
golden  Papa's,  with  a  sense  of  the  overpowering  richness 
of  the  man  who  walks  in  them!  Four  guineas  a  week, 
and,  more  than  that,  the  charming  society  of  two  young 
Misses;  and,  more  than  that,  your  bed,  your  breakfast, 
your  dinner,  your  gorging  English  teas  and  lunches  and 
drinks  of  foaming  beer,  all  for  nothing — why,  Walter,  my 
dear  good  friend  —  deuce-what-the-deuce!  —  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  have  not  eyes  enough  in  my  head  to  look 
and  wonder  at  you!" 

Neither  my  mother's  evident  astonishment  at  my  be- 
havior, nor  Pesca's  fervid  enumeration  of  the  advantages 
offered  to  me  by  the  new  employment,  had  any  effect  in 
shaicing  my  unreasonable  dismclination  to  go  to  Limme- 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  Iff 

ridge  House.  After  starting  all  the  petty  objections  that  1 
could  think  of  to  going  to  Cunibei-laud;  and  after  hearing 
them  answered,  one  after  another,  to  my  own  complete  dis- 
comfiture, 1  tried  to  set  up  a  last  obstacle  by  asking  what 
was  to  become  of  my  pupils  in  London  while  J  was  teach- 
ing Mr.  Fairlie's  young  ladies  to  sketch  from  nature.  The 
obvious  answer  to  this  was,  that  the  greater  part  of  them 
would  be  away  on  their  autumn  travels,  and  that  the  few 
who  remained  at  home  might  be  confided  to  the  care  of  one 
of  my  brother  drawing-masteis,  whose  pupils  1  had  once 
taken  off  his  hands  under  similar  circumstances.  My  sis- 
ter reminded  me  that  this  gentleman  had  expressly  placed 
his  services  at  my  disposal,  during  the  present  season,  in 
case  1  wished  to  leave  town;  ray  mother  seriously  appealed 
to  me  not  to  let  an  idle  caprice  stand  in  the  way  of  my  owi 
interests  and  my  own  health;  and  Pesca  piteously  entreated 
that  I  would  not  wound  him  to  the  heart,  by  rejecting  the 
first  grateful  offer  of  service  that  he  had  been  able  to  make 
to  the  friend  who  had  saved  his  life. 

The  evident  sincerity  and  affection  which  inspired  these 
remonstrances  would  have  influenced  any  man  with  an 
atom  of  good  feeling  in  his  composition.  Though  I  could 
not  conquer  my  own  unaccountable  perversity,  1  had  at 
least  virtue  enough  to  be  heartily  ashamed  of  it,  and  to  end 
the  discussion  pleasantly  by  giving  way,  and  promising  to 
do  all  that  was  wanted  of  me. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  passed  morrily  enough  in  humor- 
ous anticipations  of  my  coming  life  with  the  two  young 
ladies  in  Cumberland.  Pesca,  inspired  by  our  national 
grog,  which  appeared  to  get  into  his  head,  in  the  most 
marvelous  manner,  five  minutes  after  it  had  gone  down  his 
throat,  asserted  his  claims  to  be  considered  a  complete  En- 
glishman by  making  a  series  ot  speeches  in  rapid  succession; 
proposing  my  mother's  health,  my  sister's  health,  my 
health,  and  the  healths,  in  mass,  of  Mr.  Fairlie  and  the 
two  young  Misses;  pathetically  returning  thanks  himself, 
immediately  afterward,  for  the  whole  party. 

"  Asecret,  Walter,"  said  my  little  friend,  confidentially, 
as  we  walked  home  together.  "  I  am  flushed  by  the  recol- 
lection of  my  own  eloquence.  My  soul  bursts  itself  with 
ambition.  One  of  these  days,  I  go  into  your  noble  Parlia- 
ment. It  is  the  dream  of  my  whole  life  to  be  Honorable 
Pesca,  M.  P.  I" 


16  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

The  next  morning  I  sent  my  testimonials  to  the  Pro- 
fessor's employer  in  Portland  Place.  Three  days  passed; 
and  I  concluded,  with  secret  satisfaction,  that  my  papers 
had  not  been  found  sufficiently  explicit.  On  the  fourth 
day,  ho<vever,  au  answer  came.  It  announced  that  Mr. 
Fairlie  accepted  my  services,  and  requested  me  to  start  for 
Cumberland  immediately.  All  the  necessary  instructions 
for  my  journey  were  carefully  and  clearly  added  in  a  post- 
script. 

1  made  my  arrangements,  unwillingly  enough,  for  leav- 
ing Loudon  early  the  next  day.  Toward  evening  Pesca 
looked  in,  on  his  way  to  a  dinner-party,  to  bid  me  good- 
bye. 

"  I  shall  dry  my  tears  in  your  absence,"  said  the  Profess- 
or, gayly,  "  with  this  glorious  thought.  It  is  my  au- 
spicious hand  that  has  given  the  first  push  to  your  fortune 
in  the  world.  Go,  my  friend!  When  your  sun  shines  in 
Cuuiberland  (English  proverb),  in  the  name  of  Heaven, 
make  your  hay.  Marry  one  of  the  two  young  Misses;  be- 
come Honorable  Hartright,  M.  P, ;  and  when  you  are  on 
the  top  of  the  ladder,  remember  that  Pesca,  at  the  bottom, 
has  done  it  all!" 

I  tried  to  laugh  with  my  little  friend  over  his  parting 
jest,  but  my  spirits  were  not  to  be  commanded.  Some- 
thing jarred  in  me  almost  painfully,  while  he  was  speaking 
his  light  farewell  words. 

When  I  was  left  alone  again,  nothing  remained  to  be 
done  but  to  walk  to  the  Hampstead  Cottage  and  bid  my 
mother  and  Sarah  good-bye. 


IV. 


The  heat  had  been  painfully  oppressive  all  day;  and  it 
was  now  a  close  and  sultry  night. 

My  mother  and  sister  had  spoken  so  many  last  words, 
and  had  begged  me  to  wait  another  five  minutes  so  man}' 
times,  that  it  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  servant  locked 
the  garden-gate  behind  me.  I  walked  forward  a  few  paces 
on  the  shortest  way  back  to  London;  then  stopped  and 
hesitated. 

The  moon  was  full  anfl  broad  in  the  dark-blue  starlesij 
sky;  and   the   broken  ground   of   the  heath  looked  wild 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  17 

enough,  in  the  mysterious  light,  to  be  hundreds  of  miles 
away  from  the  great  city  that  lay  beneath  it.  The  idea  of 
descending  any  sooner  than  1  could  help  into  the  heat  and 
gloom  of  London  repelled  me.  The  p  ospect  of  going  to 
bed  in  my  airless  chambers,  and  the  prospect  of  gradual 
suffocation,  seemed,  in  my  present  restless  frame  of  mind 
and  body,  to  be  one  and  tlie  same  thing.  I  determined  to 
stroll  home  in  the  purer  air,  by  the  most  roundabout  way  1 
could  take;  to  follow  the  white  winding  paths  across  the 
lonely  heath;  and  to  approach  London  through  the  most 
open  suburb  by  striking  into  the  Finchley  Road,  and  so 
getting  back,  in  the  cool  of  the  new  morning,  by  the  west- 
ern side  of  the  Regent's  Park. 

1  wound  my  way  down  slowly  over  the  Heath,  enjoying 
the  divine  stillness  of  the  scene,  and  admiring  the  soft 
alternations  of  light  and  shade  as  they  followed  each  other 
over  the  broken  ground  on  every  side  of  me.  So  long  as  I 
was  proceeding  through  this  first  and  prettiest  part  of  my 
night-walk,  my  mind  remained  passively  open  to  the  im- 
pressions produced  by  the  view;  and  I  thought  but  little  on 
any  subject— indeed,  so  far  as  my  own  sensations  were  con- 
cerned, I  can  hardly  say  that  I  thought  at  all. 

But  when  I  had  left  the  Heath,  and  had  turned  into  the 
by  road,  where  there  was  less  to  see,  the  ideas  naturally 
engendered  by  the  approaching  change  in  my  habits  and 
occupations,  gradually  drew  more  and  more  of  my  atten- 
tion exclusively  to  themselves.  By  the  time  1  had  arrived 
at  the  end  of  the  road,  I  had  become  completely  absorbed 
in  my  own  fanciful  visions  of  Limmeridge  House,  of  Mr. 
Fairlie,  and  of  the  two  ladies  whose  practice  in  the  art  of 
water-color  painting  I  was  so  soon  to  superintend. 

1  had  now  arrived  at  that  particular  point  of  my  walk 
where  four  roads  met — the  road  to  Hampstead,  along  which 
I  had  returned;  the  road  to  Finchley;  the  road  to  West 
End;  and  the  road  back  to  London,  I  had  mechanically 
turned  in  this  latter  direction,  and  was  strolling  along  the 
lonely  high-road— idly  wondering,  I  remember,  what  the 
Cumberland  young  ladies  would  look  like — when,  in  one 
moment,  every  drop  of  blood  in  my  body  was  brought  to  a 
stop  by  the  touch  of  a  hand  laid  lightly  and  suddenly  on 
my  shoulder  from  behind  me. 

1  turned  on  the  instant,  with  myfingers  tightening  round 
the  handle  of  my  stick. 


18  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITF. 

There,  m  the  middle  of  the  broad,  bright  high-road- 
there,  as  if  il  had  that  moment  sprung  out  of  tlie  earth  or 
dropped  from  the  heaven — stood  the  figure  of  a  solitary 
Woman,  dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  white  garments;  her 
face  bent  in  giu^c  inquiry  on  mine,  her  hand  pointing  to 
the  dark  cloud  over  London,  as  I  faced  her. 

I  tvas  far  too  seriously  startled  by  the  suddeimess  with 
which  this  extraordinaiy  apparition  stood  before  me,  in  the 
dead  of  night  and  in  that  lonely  place,  to  ask  what  she 
wanted.     The  strange  woman  spoke  first. 

"  Is  that  the  road  to  London?"  she  said. 

1  looked  attentively  at  her,  as  she  put  that  singular  ques- 
tion to  me.  It  was  then  nearly  one  o'clock.  All  I  could 
discern  distinctly  by  the  moonlight  was  a  colorless,  youth- 
ful face,  meager  and  sharp  to  look  at,  about  the  cheeks  and 
chin;  large,  grave,  wistfully  attentive  eyes;  nervous,  un- 
certain lips;  and  light  hair  of  a  pale,  brownish-yellow  hue. 
There  was  nothing  wild,  nothing  immodest  in  her  manner; 
it  was  quiet  and  self-controlled,  a  little  melancholy  and  a 
little  touched  by  suspicion;  not  exactly  the  manner  of  a 
lady,  and,  at  the  same  time,  not  the  manner  of  a  woman 
in  the  humblest  rank  of  life.  The  voice,  little  as  I  had 
yet  heard  of  it,  had  something  curiously  still  and  mechani- 
cal in  its  tones,  and  the  utterance  was  remarkably  rapid. 
She  held  a  small  bag  in  her  hand;  and  her  dress — bonnet, 
shawl,  and  gown  all  of  white — was,  so  far  as  I  could  guess, 
certainly  not  composed  of  very  delicate  or  very  expensive 
materials.  Her  figure  was  slight,  and  rather  above  the 
average  height— her  gait  and  actions  free  from  the  slightest 
approach  to  extravagance.  This  was  all  that  I  could  ob- 
serve of  her,  in  the  dim  light  and  under  the  perplexingly 
strange  circumstances  of  our  meeting.  What  sort  of  a 
woman  she  was,  and  how  she  came  to  be  out  alone  in  the 
high-road,  an  hour  after  midnight,  I  altogether  failed  to 
guess.  The  one  thing  of  which  I  felt  certain  was,  that  the 
grossest  of  mankind  could  not  have  misconstrued  her  mo- 
tive in  speaking,  even  at  that  suspiciously  late  hour  and  iu 
that  suspiciously  lonely  place. 

"  Did  you  hear  me?"  she  said,  still  quietly  and  rapidly, 
and  without  the  least  f retfulness  or  impatience.  "  I  asked 
if  that  was  the  wav  to  London." 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  that  is  the  way;  it  leads  to  St. 
John's  Wood  and  the  Regent's  Park.     You  must  exuuea 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  19 

my  not  answering  you  before.  I  was  rather  startled  by 
your  sudden  appearance  in  the  road;  and  1  am,  even  now, 
quite  unable  to  account  for  if 

"  You  don't  suspect  me  of  doing  anything  wrong,  do 
you?  I  have  done  nothing  wrong.  1  have  met  wiih  an 
accident— I  am  very  unfortunate  in  being  here  alone  so 
kte.     Why  do  you  suspect  me  of  doing  wrong?" 

She  spoke  with  unnecessary  earnestness  and  agitation, 
and  shrunk  back  from  me  several  paces.  I  did  my  best  to 
reassure  her. 

"  F/^^  ^^^'^  suppose  that  I  have  any  idea  of  suspecting 
you,''  1  said,  "  or  any  other  wish  than  to  be  of  assistance 
to  you,  if  I  can.  1  only  wondered  at  your  appearance  in 
the  road,  because  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  empty  the  instpnt 
before  I  saw  you.*' 

She  turned,  and  pointed  back  to  a  place  at  the  junction 
of  the  road  to  London  and  the  road  to  Hampstead,  where 
there  was  a  gap  in  the  hedge. 

"I  heard  you  coming,"  she  said,  "  and  hid  there  to  see 
what  sort  of  man  you  were,  before  T  risked  speaking.  I 
doubted  and  feared  about  it  till  you  passed;  and  I  was 
obliged  to  steal  after  you,  and  touch  you." 

Steal  after  qie,  and  touch  me?  Why  not  call  to  me^ 
Strange,  to  say  the  least  of  it. 

"  May  I  trust  you?"  she  asked.  "  You  don't  think  the 
worse  of  me  because  I  have  met  with  an  accident?" 

She  stopped  in  confusion;  shifted  her  bag  from  one  hand 
to  the  other,  and  sighed  bitterly. 

The  loneliness  and  helplessness  of  the  woman  touched 
me.  The  natural  impulse  to  assist  her  and  to  spare  her, 
got  the  better  of  the  judgment,  the  caution,  the  worldly 
tact,  which  an  older,  wiser,  and  colder  man  might  have 
summoned  to  help  him  in  this  strange  emergency. 
^^  "  You  may  trust  me  for  any  harmless  purpose,"  1  said. 
'  If  it  troubles  you  to  explain  your  strange  situation  to 
me,  don't  think  of  returning  to  the  subject  again.  I  have 
no  right  to  ask  you  for  any  explanations.  Tell  me  how  I 
can  help  you;  and  if  I  can,  I  will." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  and  I  am  very,  very  thankful  to 
have  met  you."  The  first  touch  of  womanly  tenderness 
that  I  had  heard  from  her,  trembled  in  her  voice  as  she 
said  the  words;  but  no  tears  glistened  in  those  large,  wist- 
fully attentive  eyes  of  hers,  which  were  still  fixed  on  me. 


20  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  I  have  only  been  in  London  once  before,"  she  went  on, 
more  and  more  rapidly;  "  and  1  Jiuovv  nothing  about  that 
side  of  it,  yonder.  Can  I  get  a  fly,  or  a  carriage  of  any 
kind?  Is  it  too  late?  I  don't  know.  If  you  could  show 
me  where  to  get  a  fly — and  if  you  will  only  promise  not  to 
interfere  with  me,  and  to  let  me  leave  you,  when  and  how 
I  please — I  have  a  friend  in  London  who  will  be  glad  to 
receive  me — 1  want  nothing  else — will  you  promise?" 

She  looked  anxiously  up  and  down  the  road;  shifted  her 
bag  again  from  one  hand  to  the  other;  repeated  the  words, 
"  Will  you  promise?"  and  looked  hard  in  my  face,  with  a 
pleading  fear  and  confusion  that  it  troubled  me  to  see. 

What  could  1  do?  Here  was  a  stranger  utterly  and  help- 
lessly at  my  mercy — and  that  stranger  a  forlorn  woman. 
No  house  was  near;  no  one  was  passing  whom  I  could  con- 
sult; and  no  earthly  right  existed  on  my  part  to  give  me  a 
power  of  control  over  her,  even  if  I  had  known  how  to  ex- 
ercise it.  I  trace  these  lines,  self-distrustfully,  with  the 
shadows  of  after-events  darkening  the  very  paper  I  write 
on;  and  still  I  say,  what  could  1  do? 

What  I  did  do,  was  to  try  and  gain  time  by  questioning 
her. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  your  friend  in  London  will  receive 
you  at  such  a  late  hour  as  this?"  I  said. 

"  Quite  sure.  Only  say  you'll  let  me  leave  you  when  and 
how  1  please — only  say  you  won't  interfere  with  me.  Will 
you  promise?" 

As  she  repeated  the  words  for  the  third  time,  she  came 
close  to  me,  and  laid  her  hand,  with  a  sudden  gentle 
stealthiness,  on  my  bosom — a  thin  hand;  a  cold  hand 
(when  I  removed  it  with  mine)  even  on  that  sultry  night. 
Remember  that  1  was  young;  remember  that  the  hand 
which  touched  me  was  a  woman's. 

"  Will  you  promise?" 

"Yes." 

One  word!  The  little  familiar  word  that  is  on  every- 
body's lips  every  hour  in  the  day.  Oh,  me!  and  I  tremble, 
now,  when  1  write  it. 

We  set  our  faces  toward  London,  and  walked  on  together 
in  the  first  still  hour  of  the  liew  day — I,  and  this  woman, 
whose  nauie,  whose  character,  whose  story,  whose  objects 
in  life,  whose  very  presence  by  my  side,  at  that  moment, 
were  fathomless  mysteries  to  n-'C.     It  was  like  a  dream. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  21 

Was  I  Walter  Hartright?  Was  this  the  well-known,  un- 
eventful road,  wliere  holiday  people  strolled  on  Sundays? 
Had  I  really  left,  little  more  than  an  hour  since,  the  quiet, 
decent,  conventionally  domestic  atmosphere  of  my  moth- 
er's cottage?  I  was  too  bewildered—too  conscious  also  of 
a  vague  sense  of  something  like  self-reproach — to  speak  to 
uiy  strange  companion  for  some  minutes.  It  was  her  voice 
again  that  first  broke  the  silence  between  us. 

"  1  want  to  ask  you  something,"  she  said,  suddenly, 
*'  Do  you  know  many  people  in  London?'* 

"  Yes,  a  great  many." 

"  Many  men  of  rank  and  title?'* 

There  was  an  unmistakable  tone  of  suspicion  in  the 
strange  question.     1  hesitated  about  answering  it. 

"  Somu',"  I  said,  after  a  moment's  silence, 

"  Many  " — she  came  to  a  full  stop,  and  looked  me 
searchingly  in  the  face — "  many  men  of  the  rank  of  Bar- 
onet?" 

Too  much  astonished  to  reply,  I  questioned  her  in  my 
turn. 

"  Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  Because  I  hope,  for  my  own  sake,  there  is  one  Bar- 
onet that  you  don't  know." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  his  name?" 

*'  I  can't — I  daren't — I  forget  myself  when  I  mention 
it."  She  spoke  loudly  and  almost  fiercely,  raised  her 
clmched  hand  in  the  air,  and  shook  it  passionately;  then, 
on  a  sudden,  controlled  herself  again,  and  added,  in  tones 
lowered  to  a  whisper:  "  Tell  me  which  of  them  you 
know." 

1  could  hardly  refuse  to  humor  her  in  such  a  trifle,  and 
1  mentioned  three  names.  Two,  the  names  of  fathers  of 
families  whose  daughters  1  had  taught;  one  the  name  of  a 
bachelor  who  had  once  taken  me  a  cruise  in  his  yacht,  to 
make  sketches  for  him. 

"  Ah!  you  don't  know  him,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief.     "  Are  you  a  man  of  rank  and  title  yourself?" 

"  Far  from  it.     1  am  only  a  drawing-master!" 

As  the  reply  passed  my  li})s — a  little  bitterly,  perhaps — 
she  took  my  arm  wiili  the  abruptness  which  characterized 
all  her  actions. 

"  Net  a  man  of  i-;uil  a'ld  iitle,"  she  repeated  to  herself, 
'•  Thank  God!  1  may  trust  him.'* 


22  THE    WOMAN"    IN     WHITE. 

I  had  hitherto  contrived  to  master  my  curiosity  out  of 
consideration  for  my  companion;  but  it  got  the  better  of 
me  now. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  serious  reason  to  complain  of 
some  man  of  rank  and  title?"  I  said.  "  1  am  afraid  the 
Baronet  whose  name  you  are  unwilling  to  mention  to  me 
has  done  you  come  grievous  wrong.''  Is  he  the  cause  of 
your  being  out  here  at  this  strange  time  of  uighi?" 

"Don't  ask  me;  don't  make  me  talk  of  it,"  she  an- 
swered. "  I'm  not  fit,  now.  1  have  been  cruelly  used  and 
cruelly  wronged.  You  will  be  kinder  than  ever,  if  you  will 
walk  on  fast,  and  not  speak  to  me.  I  sadly  want  to  quiet 
myself,  if  I  can." 

We  moved  forward  again  at  a  quick  pace;  and  for  half 
an  hour,  at  least,  not  a  word  passed  on  either  side.  From 
time  to  time,  being  forbidden  to  make  any  more  inquiries, 
I  stole  a  look  at  her  face.  It  was  always  the  same;  the 
lips  close  shut,  the  brow  frowning,  the  eyes  looking  straight 
forward,  eagerly  and  yet  absently.  We  had  reached  the 
first  houses,  and  were  close  on  the  new  Wesleyan  College, 
before  her  set  features  relaxed,  and  she  spoke  once  more. 

"  Do  you  live  in  London?"  she  said. 

"Yes."  As  I  answered,  it  struck  me  that  she  might 
have  formed  some  intention  of  appealing  to  me  for  assist- 
ance or  advice,  and  that  I  ought  to  spare  her  a  possible 
disappointment  by  warning  her  of  my  approaching  absence 
from  home.  So  I  added:  "  But  ''O-niorrow  I  hhall  be  a^ay 
from  London  for  some  time,  i  am  going  into  the  coun- 
try." 

"  Where?"  she  asked.     "  North,  or  south?" 

"  North — to  Cumberland." 

"  Cumberland!"  she  repeated  the  word  tenderly.  "  All! 
I  wish  I  was  going  there,  too.  1  was  once  happy  in  Cimi- 
berland." 

I  tried  again  to  lift  ihe  veil  that  hung  between  this  wom- 
an and  me. 

"Perhaps  you  were  born,"  I  said,  "in  the  beautiful 
Lake  country." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  1  was  born   in  Hampshirt,  but 
I  once  went  to  school  for  a  little  while  in  Ciimberland 
Lakes?     I  don't  remember  any  lakes.     It's  J^immeridge 
village,    and   Limmeridge   House,    1   should    like    to   see 
again." 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  23 

It  was  my  turn,  now,  to  stop  suddenly.  In  the  excited 
Bfcate  of  my  curiosity,  at  that  moment,  the  chance  reference 
to  Mr.  Fairlie's  place  of  residence,  on  the  lips  of  my  strange 
companion,  staggered  me  with  astonishment. 

"  Did  you  hear  anybody  calling  after  us?"  she  asked, 
looking  up  and  down  the  road  aSri^ghtedly,  the  instant  1 
stopped. 

"  No,  no.  I  was  only  struck  by  the  name  of  Limmeridge 
House — I  heard  it  mentioned  by  some  Cumberland  people 
a  few  days  since.'* 

"Ah!  not  viy  people.  Mrs.  Fairlie  is  dead;  and  her 
husband  is  dead;  and  their  little  girl  may  be  married  and 
gone  away  by  this  time.  I  can't  say  who  lives  at  Limme- 
ridge now.  If  any  more  are  left  there  of  that  name,  I  only 
know  1  love  them  for  Mrs.  Fairlie's  sake." 

She  seemed  about  to  say  more;  but  while  she  was  speak- 
ing, we  came  within  view  of  the  turnpike,  at  the  top  of  the 
Avenue  Eoad.  Her  hand  tightened  round  my  arm,  and 
she  looked  anxiousiy  at  the  gate  before  us. 

"  Is  the  turnpike  man  looking  out?"  she  asked. 

He  was  not  looking  out;  no  one  else  was  near  the  place 
when  we  passed  through  the  gate.  The  sight  of  the  gas- 
lamps  and  houses  seemed  to  agitate  her,  and  to  make  her 
impatient. 

"  This  is  London,"  she  said.  '*  Do  you  see  any  carriage 
I  can  get?  I  am  tired  and  frightened.  1  want  to  shiit 
myself  in,  and  be  driven  away." 

1  explained  to  her  that  we  must  walk  a  little  further  to 
get  to  a  cab-stand,  unless  we  were  fortunate  enough  to  meet 
with  an  empty  vehicle;  and  then  tried  to  resume  the  sub- 
ject of  Cumberland.  It  was  useless.  That  idea  of  shut- 
ting herself  in,  and  being  driven  away,  had  now  got  fall 
possession  of  her  mind.  She  could  think  and  talk  of  noth- 
ing else. 

We  had  hardly  proceeded  a  third  of  the  way  down  the 
Avenue  Eoad  when  1  saw  a  cab  draw  up  at  a  house  a  few 
doors  below  us,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  A  gentle- 
man got  out  and  let  himself  in  at  the  garden-door.  I 
hailed  the  cab,  as  the  driver  mounted  the  box  again. 
When  we  crossed  the  road,  my  companion's  impatience  in- 
creased to  such  au  extant  that  she  almost  forced  Tne  to 
ran. 


f^  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  It's  SO  late,"  she  said.  "I  am  only  in  a  hurry  be- 
cause it's  so  late." 

"  1  can't  take  you,  sir,  if  you're  not  going  toward  Tot- 
tenham Court  Road,"  said  the  driver,  civilly,  when  I 
opened  the  cab-door.  "  My  horse  is  dead  beat,  and  I  can't 
get  him  no  further  than  the  stable." 

"  Yes,  yes.  That  will  do  for  me.  I'm  going  that  way 
— I'm  going  that  way." 

She  spoke  with  breathless  eagerness,  and  pressed  by  me 
into  the  cab. 

I  had  assured  myself  that  the  man  was  sober  as  well  as 
civil,  before  I  let  her  enter  the  vehicle.  And  now,  when 
she  was  seated  inside,  1  entreated  her  to  let  me  see  her  set 
down  safely  at  her  destination. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  she  said,  vehemently.  "  I'm  quite  safe, 
and  quite  happy  now.  If  you  are  a  gentleman,  remember 
your  promise.  Let  him  drive  on,  till  1  stop  him.  Thank 
you — oh!  thank  you,  thank  you!' 

My  hand  was  on  the  cab-door.  She  caught  it  in  hers, 
kissed  it,  and  pushed  it  away.  The  cab  drove  off  at  the 
same  moment — I  started  into  the  road,  with  some  vague 
idea  of  stopping  it  again,  I  hardly  knew  why — hesitated 
from  dread  of  frightening  and  distressing  her— called,  at 
last,  but  not  loudly  enough  to  attract  the  driver's  atten- 
tion. The  sound  of  the  wheels  grew  fainter  in  the  dis- 
tance— the  cab  melted  into  the  black  shadows  on  the  road 
— the  woman  in  white  was  gone. 

Ten  minutes,  or  more,  had  passed.  1  was  still  on  the 
same  side  of  the  way;  now  mechanically  walking  forward  a 
few  paces;  now  stopping  again  absently.  At  one  moment, 
I  found  myself  doubting  the  reality  of  my  own  adventure; 
at  another,  1  was  perplexed  and  distressed  by  an  uneasy 
sense  of  having  done  wrong,  which  yet  left  me  confusedly 
ignorant  of  how  I  could  have  done  right,  I  hardly  knew 
where  I  was  going,  or  what  1  meant  to  do  next;  I  was  con- 
ecious  of  nothing  but  the  confusion  of  my  own  thoughts, 
when  I  was  abruptly  recalled  to  myself — awakened,  I 
might  almost  say — by  the  sound  of  rapidly  approaching 
wheels  close  behind  me. 

I  was  on  the  dark  side  of  the  road,  in  the  thick  shadow 
of  some  garden-trees,  when  I  stopped  to  look  round.  On 
the  opposite  and  lighter  side  of  the  way,  a  short  distauue 


THE    %YOMAIs     IN     \THITE,  25 

below  me,  a  policomau  was  strolling  along  in  the  direction 
of  (he  Regent's  Park. 

The  carriage  passed  me — an  opfn  chaise  driven  by  two 
men. 

"  Stop!"  cried  one.  "  There's  a  policeman.  Let's  ask 
him." 

The  horse  u'as  instantly  pulled  up,  a  few  yards  beyond 
tbe  dark  place  where  1  stood. 

"  Policeman!"  cried  the  first  speaker.  "  Have  you  seen 
a  woman  pass  this  way?" 

"  What  sort  of  woman,  sir?" 

"  A  woman  in  a  lavender-colored  gown — " 

"  No,  no,"  interposed  the  second  man.  "  The  clothes 
Vi'e  gave  her  were  found  on  her  bed.  She  must  have  gone 
away  in  the  clothes  she  wore  when  she  came  to  us.  In 
white,  policeman.     A  woman  in  white." 

"  1  haven't  seen  her,  sir." 

"  If  you,  or  any  of  your  men,  meet  with  the  woman, 
stop  her,  and  send  her,  in  careful  keeping,  to  that  address. 
I'll  pay  all  expenses,  and  a  fair  reward  into  the  bargain." 

The  policeman  looked  at  the  card  that  was  handed  down 
to  him. 

"  Why  are  we  to  stop  her,  sir?     What  has  she  done?" 

"  Done!  She  has  escaped  from  my  Asylum.  Don't  for- 
get; a  woman  in  white.     Drive  on." 


V. 

"  She  haa  escaped  from  my  Asylum!'* 

I  can  not  say  with  truth  that  the  terrible  mference  which 
those  words  suggested  flashed  upon  me  like  a  new  revela- 
tion. Some  of  the  strange  questions  put  to  me  by  the 
woman  in  white,  after  my  ill-considered  promise  to  leave 
iier  free  to  act  as  she  pleased,  had  suggested  the  conclusion 
either  that  she  was  naturally  flighty  and  unsettled,  or  that 
Siime  recent  shock  of  terror  had  disturbed  the  balance  of 
her  faculties.  But  the  idea  of  absolute  insanity  which  we 
all  associate  with  the  very  name  of  an  Asylum,  had,  I  can 
honestly  declare,  never  occurred  to  me,  in  connect.oa  with 
her.  I  had  seen  nothing,  in  her  language  or  her  actions, 
to  justify  it  at  the  time;  and,  even  with  the  new  light 
thrown  on  her  by  the  wortls  which   the  stranger  had  ad- 


26  THK     WOMAN     IN     WHITE. 

dressed  tc  the  policeman,  1  could  see  nothing  to  justify  it 
now. 

What  had  1  done?  Assisted  the  victim  of  the  most  hor- 
rible of  all  false  imprisonments  to  escape;  or  cast  loose  on 
the  wide  world  of  Loudon  an  unfortunate  creature,  whose 
actions  it  was  my  duty,  and  every  man's  duty,  mercifully 
to  conti'ol?  I  turned  sick  at  heart  when  the  question 
occurred  to  me,  and  when  I  felt  self-reproachfully  that  it 
was  as^ked  too  late. 

In  the  disturbed  state  of  my  mind,  it  was  useless  to  thinii 
of  g(^nig  to  bed,  when  I  at  last  got  bacii  to  my  chambers  in 
Clement's  Inn.  Bafore  mauy  hours  elapsed  it  would  be 
necessary  to  start  on  my  journey  to  Cumberland.  I  sat 
down  and  tried,  first  to  sketch,  then  to  read — but  the 
woman  in  white  got  between  me  and  my  pencil,  between 
me  and  my  book.  Had  the  forlorn  creature  come  to  any 
harm?  That  was  my  first  thought,  though  I  shrunk  self- 
ishly from  confronting  it.  Other  thoughts  followed,  on 
which  it  was  less  harrowing  to  dwell.  Where  had  she 
stopped  the  cab?  What  had  become  of  her  now?  Had 
she  been  traced  and  captured  by  the  men  in  the  chaise? 
Or  was  she  still  capable  of  controlling  her  own  actions? 
and  were  we  two  following  our  widely  parted  roads  toward 
one  point  in  the  mysterious  future,  at  which  we  were  to 
meet  once  more? 

It  was  a  relief  when  the  hour  came  to  lock  my  door,  to 
bid  farewell  to  London  pursuits,  London  pupils,  and  Lon- 
don friends,  and  to  be  in  movement  again  toward  new  in- 
terests and  a  new  life.  Even  the  bustle  and  confusion  at 
the  railway  terminus,  so  wearisome  ^nd  bewildering  at 
other  times,  roused  mc  and  did  me  good. 

My  traveling  instructions  directed  me  to  go  to  Carlisle, 
and  then  to  diverge  by  a  branch  railway  which  ran  in  the 
direction  of  the  coast.  As  a  misfortune  to  begin  with,  our 
engine  broke  down  between  Lancaster  and  Carlisle.  The 
delay  occasioned  by  this  accident  caused  me  to  be  too  late 
for  the  branch  train,  by  which  I  was  to  have  gone  on  im- 
mediately. I  had  to  wait  some  hours;  and  when  a  later 
train  finally  deposited  me  at  the  nearest  station  to  Limme- 
ridge  House,  it  was  past  ten,  and  the  night  was  so  dark 
that  1  could  hardly  see  my  way  to  the  pony-chaise  which 
Mr.  Fairlie  had  ordered  to  be  in  waiting  lor  me. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  2? 

The  driver  was  evidently  discomposed  by  the  lateness  of 
my  arrival.  He  was  in  that  state  of  highly  respectful 
sulkiness  which  is  peculiar  to  English  servants.  We  drove 
away  slowly  through  the  darkness  in  perfect  silence.  The 
roads  were  bad,  and  the  dense  obscurity  of  the  night  in- 
creased the  difficulty  of  getting  over  the  ground  quickly. 
It  was,  by  my  watch,  neatly  an  hour  and  a  half  from  the 
time  of  our  leaving  the  station  before  I  heard  the  sound  of 
the  sea  in  the  distance,  and  the  crunch  of  our  wheels  on  a 
smooth  gravel  drive.  We  had  passed  one  gate  before  en- 
tering the  drive,  and  we  passed  another  before  we  drew  up 
at  the  house.  I  was  received  by  a  solemn  man-servant  out 
of  livery,  was  informed  that  the  family  had  retired  for  the 
night,  and  was  then  led  into  a  large  and  lofty  room  where 
my  supper  was  awaiting  me,  in  a  forlorn  manner,  at  one 
extremity  of  a  lonesome  mahogany  wilderness  of  dining- 
table. 

I  was  too  tired  and  out  of  spirits  to  eat  or  drink  much, 
especially  with  the  solemn  servant  waiting  on  me  as  elabo- 
rately as  if  a  small  dinner-party  had  arrived  at  the  house 
instead  of  a  solitary  man.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  was 
ready  to  be  taken  up  to  my  bed-chamber.  The  solemn 
servant  cond-ucted  me  into  a  prettily  furnished  room — 
said,  "  Breakfast  at  nine  o'clock,  sir  " — looked  all  round 
him  to  see  that  everything  was  in  its  proper  place — and 
noiselessly  withdrew. 

"  What  shall  I  see  in  my  dreams  to-night?"  I  thought 
to  myself,  as  I  put  out  the  candle;  "  the  woman  in  white? 
or  the  unknown  inhabitants  of  this  Cumberland  man- 
sion?" 

It  was  a  strange  sensation  to  be  sleeping  in  the  house, 
"iike  a  friend  of  The  family,  and  3'et  not  to  know  one  of  the 
inmates,  even  by  sight! 


VI. 


Whkn  I  rose  the  next  morning  and  drew  up  my  blind, 
the  sea  opened  before  me  joyously  under  the  broad  August 
sunlight,  and  the  distant  coast  of  Scotland  fringed  the 
horizon  with  its  lines  of  melting  blue. 

The  view  was  such  a  surprise,  and  such  a  change  to  me, 
after  my  weary  liondon  experience  of   brick-and-mortar 


58  THE    WOMAK    IK    WHITE, 

Jandscupc,  that  I  seemed  to  burst  into  a  new  life  and  a  new 
set  of  thoughts  the  moment  1  looked  at  it.  A  confused 
sensation  of  having  suddenly  lost  my  familiarity  with  the 
past,  without  acquiring  any  additional  clearness  of  idea  m 
reference  to  the  present  or  the  future,  took  possession  of 
my  mind.  Circumstances  that  were  but  a  few  days  old, 
faded  hack  in  my  memory,  as  if  they  had  happened  months 
and  months  since.  Pesca's  quaint  announcement  of  the 
means  by  which  he  had  procured  me  my  present  employ- 
ment; the  farewell  evening  I  had  passed  with  my  mother 
and  sister;  even  my  mysterious  adventure  on  the  way 
home  from  Hampstead — had  all  become  like  events  which 
might  have  occurred  at  some  former  epoch  of  my  exist- 
ence. Although  the  woman  in  white  was  still  m  my  mind, 
the  image  of  her  seemed  to  have  grown  dull  and  faint 
already. 

A  little  before  nine  o'clock,  1  descended  to  the  ground- 
floor  of  the  house.  The  solemn  man-servant  of  the  night 
before  met  me  wandering  among  the  passages,  and  com- 
passionately showed  me  the  way  to  the  breakfast-room. 

My  first  glance  round  me,  as  the  man  opened  the  door, 
disclosed  a  well-furnished  breakfast-table,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  a  long  room,  with  many  windows  in  it.  I  looked 
from  the  table  to  the  window  furthest  from  me,  and  saw  a 
lady  standing  at  it,  with  her  back  turned  toward  me.  The 
instant  my  eyes  rested  on  her,  1  was  struck  by  the  rare 
beauty  of  her  form,  and  by  the  unaffected  grace  of  her  at' 
titude.  Her  figure  was  tall,  yet  not  too  tall;  comely  and 
well  developed,  yet  not  fat;  her  head  set  on  her  shoulders 
with  an  easy,  pliant  firmness;  her  waist,  perfection  in  the 
eyes  of  a  man,  for  it  occupied  its  natural  place,  it  filled  out 
its  natural  circle,  it  was  visibly  and  delightfully  unde- 
formed  by  stays.  She  had  not  heard  my  entrance  into  the 
room;  and  1  allowed  myself  the  luxury  of  admiring  her  foi 
a  few  moments,  before  I  revived  one  of  the  chairs  near  me, 
as  the  least  embarrassing  means  of  attracting  her  atten- 
tion. She  turned  toward  me  immediately.  The  easy  ele- 
gance of  every  movement  of  her  limbs  and  body  as  soon  as 
she  began  to  advance  from  the  far  end  of  the  room,  set  me 
in  a  flutter  of  expectation  to  see  her  face  clearly.  She  left 
the  window — and  I  said  to  myself,  The  lady  is  dark.  She 
moved  forward  a  fi'vv  steps — and  I  said  to  myself,  The  lady 
i^;  young.     SLo  ii;)Uioai;iied  nearer — and  I  said  to  myself 


THE    AVOMAK     IN    "WniTE.  29 

(with  a  sense  of  surprise  which  words  fail  me  to  express), 
The  lady  is  ngiy! 

Never  was  th'^  old  convontioual  maxim,  that  Nature  caa 
not  err,  more  llatly  contradicted — never  was  tho  fair  prom- 
ise of  a  lovely  figure  more  strangely  and  startlingly  belied 
by  the  face  and  head  that  crowned  it.  The  lady's  com- 
plexion was  almost  swarthy,  and  the  dark  down  on  her  up- 
per lip  was  almost  a  mustache.  She  had  a  large,  firm, 
masculine  mouth  and  jaw;  prominent,  jiiercing,  resolute 
brown  eyes;  and  thick,  coal-black  hair,  growing  unusually 
low  down  on  her  forehead.  Her  expression — bright,  frank, 
and  intelligent— appeared,  while  she  was  silent,  to  be  alto- 
gether wanting  in  those  feminine  actractions  of  gentleness 
and  pliability,  without  which  the  beauty  of  the  handsomest 
woman  alive  is  beauty  incomplete.  To  see  such  a  face  as 
this  set  on  shoulders  that  a  sculptor  would  have  longed  to 
model — to  be  charmed  by  the  modest  graces  of  action 
through  v.'hich  the  symmetrical  limbs  betrayed  their  beau!;y 
whenlhey  moved,  and  then  to  be  almost  repelled  by  the 
masculine  form  and  masculine  look  of  the  features  in  which 
the  perfectly  shaped  figure  ended — was  to  feel  a  sensation 
oddly  akin  to  the  helpless  discomfort  familiar  to  us  all  in 
sleep,  when  we  recognize  yet  can  not  reconcile  the  anom- 
alies and  contradictions  of  a  dream. 

"  Mr.  Hartright?"  said  the  lady,  interrogatively,  her 
dark  face  lighting  up  with  a  smile,  and  softening  and 
growing  womanly  the  moment  she  began  to  speak.  "  We 
resigned  all  hope  of  you  last  night,  and  went  to  bed  as 
usual.  Accept  my  apologies  for  our  apparent  want  of  at- 
tention; and  allow  me  to  introduce  myself  as  one  of  your 
pupils.  Shall  we  shake  hands?  I  suppose  we  must  come 
to  it  sooner  or  later — and  why  not  sooner?" 

These  odd  words  of  welcome  were  spoken  in  a  clear,  ring- 
ing, pleasant  voice.  The  offered  hand — rather  large,  but 
beautifully  formed — was  gi^en  to  me  with  the  easy,  un- 
affected self-reliance  of  a  highly  bred  woman.  We  sat 
down  together  at  the  breakfast-table  in  as  cordial  and  cus- 
tomary a  manner  as  if  we  had  known  each  other  for  years, 
and  had  met  at  Limmericlge  House  to  talk  over  old  times 
by  previous  appointment. 

"  I  hope  you  come  here  good-humoredly  determined  to 
make  the  best  of  your  position,"  continued  the  lady. 
"  You  will  have  to  begin  this  morning  by  putting  up  vvdth 


30  THE    WOilAN    IN    WHITE. 

uo  other  company  at  breakfast  tliau  luiue.  My  sister  is  in 
her  own  room,  uursing  that  essentially  feminine  malady,  a 
slight  headache;  and  her  old  governess,  Mrs.  Vesey,  is 
charitably  attending  on  her  vvjLh  restorative  tea.  My  un- 
cle, Mr.  Fairlie,  never  joins  us  at  any  of  our  meal 5;  he  is 
an  invalid,  and  keeps  bachelor  state  in  his  own  ajjartments. 
There  is  nobody  else  in  the  house  but  me.  Two  young 
ladies  have  been  staying  here,  but  they  went  away  yester- 
day, in  despair;  and  uo  wonder.  All  through  their  visit 
(in  consequence  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  invalid  condition)  we  pro- 
duced no  such  convenience  in  the  house  as  a  flir table, 
danceable,  small-talkable  creature  of  the  male  sex;  and 
the  consequence  was,  we  did  nothing  but  quarrel,  especially 
at  dinner-time.  How  can  you  expect  four  women  to  dine 
together  alone  every  day,  and  not  quarrel?  We  are  such 
fools,  we  can't  entertain  each  other  at  table.  You  see  I 
don^t  think  much  of  my  own  sex,  Mr.  Hartright — which 
will  you  have,  tea  or  cotfee? — no  woman  does  think  much 
of  her  own  sex,  although  few  of  them  confess  it  as  freely 
as  I  do.  Dear  me,  you  look  puzzled.  Why?  Are  you 
wondering  what  you  will  have  for  breakfast?  or  are  you 
surprised  at  my  careless  way  of  talking?  In  the  first  case, 
1  advise  you,  as  a  friend,  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  that 
cold  ham  at  your  elbow,  and  to  wait  till  the  omelet  comes 
in.  In  the  second  case,  1  will  give  you  some  tea  to  com- 
pose your  spirits,  and  do  all  a  woman  can  (which  is  very 
little,  by  the  bye)  to  hold  my  tongue." 

She  handed  me  my  cup  of  tea,  laughing  gayly.  Her 
light  flow  of  talk,  and  her  lively  familiarity  of  manner 
with  a  total  stranger,  were  accompanied  by  an  unaffected 
naturalness  and  an  easy  inborn  confidence  in  herself  and 
her  position,  which  would  have  secured  her  the  respect  of 
the  most  audacious  man  breathing.  While  it  was  impos- 
sible to  be  formal  and  reserved  in  her  company,  it  was 
more  than  impossible  to  take  the  faintest  vestige  of  a 
liberty  with  her,  even  in  thought.  1  felt  this  instinctively, 
even  while  I  caught  the  infection  of  her  own  bright  gayety 
of  spirits — 3ven  while  1  did  my  best  to  answer  her  in  her 
own  frank,  lively  way. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  when  I  had  suggested  the  only  ex- 
planation 1  could  offer,  to  account  for  my  perplexed  looks, 
"  1  understand.  Y^ou  are  such  a  j)erj'ec't  stranger  in  ihe 
house,  that  you  are  puzzled  by  my  familiar  references  to 


THE     Vv'OMAN     IN     \THITF:.  31 

the  worthy  inhabitants.  Natural  eDOuglj;  1  ought  to  h.ave 
thought  of  it  before.  At  any  rate,  1  can  set  it  right  now. 
Suppose  I  begin  with  myaelf,  so  as  to  get  done  with  that 
part  of  the  subject  as  soon  as  possible?  My  name  is  Mari- 
au  Halcon:ibe;  and  I  am  as  inaccurate  as  women  usually 
are  in  calling  Mr.  Fairlie  my  uncle,  and  Miss  Faulie  my 
sister.  My  mother  was  twice  married;  the  first  time  to 
Mr.  Halcombe,  my  father;  the  second  time  to  Mr.  Fairlie, 
niy  half-sister's  father.  Except  that  we  are  both  orphans, 
we  are  iu  every  respect  as  unlike  each  other  as  possible. 
My  lather  was  a  poor  man,  and  Miss  Fairlie's  father  was  a 
rich  man.  1  have  got  nothing,  and  she  has  a  fortune.  I 
am  dark  and  ugly,  and  she  is  fair  and  pretty.  Everybody 
thinks  me  crabbed  and  odd  (with  perfect  justice);  and 
everybody  thinks  her  sweet-tempered  and  charming  (with 
more  justice  still).  In  short,  she  is  an  angel;  and  I  am — 
Try  some  of  that  marmalade,  Mr.  Hartright,  and  finish 
the  sentence,  in  the  name  of  femnle  propriety,  for  yourself. 
What  am  I  to  tell  you  about  Mr.  Fairlie?  Upon  my  honor, 
1  hardly  know.  He  is  sure  to  send  for  you  after  breakfast, 
and  you  can  study  him  for  yourself.  In  the  meantime,  I 
may  inform  you,  first,  that  he  is  the  late  Mr.  Fairlie's 
younger  brother;  secondly,  that  he  is  a  single  man;  and, 
thirdly,  that  he  is  Miss  Fairlie's  guardian.  I  v/on't  live 
without  her,  and  she  can't  live  without  me;  and  that  is 
how  1  come  to  be  at  Limmeridge  House.  My  sister  and  i 
are  honestly  fond  of  each  other;  which,  you  will  say,  is 
perfectly  unaccountable,  under  the  circumstances,  and  i 
quite  agree  with  you — but  so  it  is.  You  must  please  both 
of  us,  Mr.  Hartright,  or  please  neither  of  us;  and,  what  is 
still  more  trying,  you  will  be  tlirown  entirely  upon  our  so- 
ciety. Mrs.  Vesey  is  an  excellent  person,  v/ho  possesses  all 
the  cardinal  virtues,  and  counts  for  nothing;  and  Mr.  Fair- 
lie  is  too  great  an  invalid  to  be  a  companion  for  anybod}'. 
I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  him,  and  the  doctors 
don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  him,  and  he  doesn't 
know  himself  what  is  the  nnitter  with  him.  We  all  say 
it's  on  the  nerves,  and  we  none  of  us  know  what  we  mean 
when  we  say  it.  However,  I  advise  you  to  humor  his  lit- 
tle peculiarities,  when  you  see  him  to-day.  Admire  his 
collection  of  coins,  j^rints,  and  v/ater-color  drawings,  and 
vou  will  win  his  heart.  Upon  my  word,  if  you  can  be  con- 
t'lited  with  a  quiet  country  life,  I  don't  uee  why  you  should 


33  THE    WOMAN     IN     WHITE. 

not  get  Oil  very  r/ell  here.  From  breakfast  to  lunch,  Mr. 
Fairlie's  drawiiigs  will  occupy  you.  After  Innch,  Miss 
Fairlie  ami  1  shoulder  onr  skett.'h-boolis,  and  go  out  to 
misrepresent  nature,  under  your  directiuns.  Drawing  is 
her  favorite  whim,  mind,  not  mine.  Women  can't  draw 
— their  minds  are  too  fiighty,  and  their  eyes  are  too  inat- 
tentive. No  matter — my  sister  likes  it;  so  1  waste  juiinfc 
and  spoil  paper,  for  her  sake,  as  crmposedly  as  any  woman 
in  Eiigla!id.  As  for  the  eveniugs,  1  think  v.e  can  help  you 
through  them.  Miss  Fairlie  plays  delightfully.  For  my 
o^vu  poor  part,  1  don't  know  one  ticte  of  music  from  the 
other;  but  I  can  match  you  at  chess,  backgiimnton,  ecarte, 
and  (with  the  inevitable  female  diawbacks)  even  at  billiards 
as  well.  What  do  you  thnik  of  the  piogramme?  Can  yon 
reconcile  yourself  to  our  cpiiet,  regular  life?  or  do  yon 
mean  to  be  restless,  and  secretly  thirst  for  change  and  ad- 
venture, in  the  hunnlrum  atmosphere  of  Limmeridge 
House?" 

She  had  run  on  thus  far,  in  her  gracefully  bantering  wny, 
with  no  other  interruptions  on  my  part  than  the  unimpor- 
tant replies  which  politeness  required  of  me.  Tiie  turn  of 
the  expression,  however,  in  her  last  question,  or  rather 
the  one  chance  word,  "  adventure,"  liglitly  as  it  fell  from 
her  lips,  recalled  my  thauglits  to  my  meeting  with  the 
woman  in  white,  and  urged  me  to  discover  the  connection 
which  the  stranger's  own  reference  to  J\Irs.  Fairlie  in- 
formed me  must  once  have  existed  between  the  nr.mcless 
fugitive  from  the  Asylum,  and  the  former  mistress  of 
Limmeridge  House. 

"  Even  if  I  were  the  most  restless  of  Diankind,"  I  said, 
*'  I  should  be  in  no  danger  of  thirsting  after  adventures 
for  some  time  to  come.  The  very  night  before  I  arrived 
at  this  house,  1  met  with  an  adventure;  and  the  wonder 
and  excitement  of  it,  1  can  assure  yon.  Miss  Halccmbe, 
will  last  me  for  the  whole  term  of  my  stay  in  Cumberland, 
if  not  for  a  much  longer  period." 

"  You  don't  say  so,  Mr.  Hartright!     May  I  hear  it?" 

"  You  have  a  claim  to  hear  it.  The  chief  person  in  the 
adventure  was  a  total  stranger  to  me,  and  may  pejhaps  be 
a  total  stranger  to  you;  but  she  certainly  mentioned  the 
name  of  the  late  Mrs.  Fairlie  in  terms  of  the  sinceresfc 
gi'atitude  and  regard.'* 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  33 

*^  Mentioned  my  mother's  name!  You  interest  mo  hule- 
scribably.     Pray  go  on.'' 

I  at  once  related  the  circumstances  under  which  1  had 
met  the  woman  in  white,  exactly  as  they  had  occurred; 
and  1  repeated  what  she  had  said  to  me  about  Mrs.  Pairlie 
and  Limmeridge  House,  word  for  word. 

Miss  Halcombe's  bright,  resolute  eyes  looked  eagerly  into 
mine,  from  the  beginning  of  the  narrative  to  the  end. 
Her  face  expressed  vivid  interest  and  astonishment,  but 
nothing  more.  She  was  evidentiy  as  far  from  knowing  of 
any  clew  to  the  mystery  as  1  was  myself. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  of  those  words  referring  to  my 
mother?"  she  asked. 

"  Quite  sure,"  I  replied.  "  Whosoever  she  may  be,  the 
woman  was  once  at  school  in  the  village  of  Limmeridge, 
was  treated  with  especial  kindness  by  Mrs.  Fairlie,  and,  in 
grateful  remembrance  of  that  kindness,  feels  an  affection- 
ate interest  in  all  surviving  members  of  the  family.  She 
knew  that  Mrs.  Fairlie  and  her  husband  were  both  dead; 
and  she  spoke  of  Mrs.  Fairlie  as  if  they  had  known  each 
other  when  they  were  children." 

"  You  said,  I  think,  that  she  denied  belonging  to  thi»> 
place?" 

"  Yes,  she  told  me  she  came  from  Hampshire." 

"  And  you  entirely  failed  to  find  out  her  name?" 

"Entirely." 

"  Very  strange.  1  think  you  were  quite  justified,  Mr. 
Hartright,  in  giving  the  poor  creature  her  liberty,  for  she 
seems  to  have  done  nothing  in  your  presence  to  show  her- 
self unfit  to  enjoy  it.  But  1  wish  you  had  beeu  a  little 
more  resolute  about  finding  out  her  name.  We  must 
really  clear  up  this  mystery,  in  some  way.  You  had  bet- 
ter not  speak  of  it  yet  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  or  to  my  sister. 
They  are  both  of  them,  I  am  certain,  quite  as  ignorant  of 
who  the  woman  is,  and  of  what  her  past  history  in  con- 
nection  with  us  can  be,  as  1  am  myself.  But  they  are  also, 
in  widely  different  ways,  rather  nervous  and  sensitive;  and 
you  would  only  fidget  one  and  alarm  the  other  to  no  pur- 
pose. As  for  myself,  I  am  all  aflame  with  curiosity,  and  1 
devote  my  whole  energies  to  the  business  of  discovery  from 
this  moment.  When  my  mother  came  here,  after  her 
second  marriage,  she  certainly  established  the  village 
school  just  as  it  exists  at  the  present  time.     But  the  old 


34  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

teachers  are  all  dead,  or  gone  elsewhere;  and  no  enlighten 
meat  is  to  be  hoped   for  from   that  quarter.     The  only 
other  alternative  1  can  think  of — " 

At  this  point  we  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the 
servant,  with  a  message  from  Mr.  Fairlie,  intimating  that 
he  would  be  glad  to  see  me,,  as  soon  as  I  had  done  brtak- 
fast. 

"  Wait  in  the  hall,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  answering  the 
servant  for  me,  in  her  quick,  ready  way.  "  Mr.  Hartriglit 
will  come  out  directly.  I  was  about  to  say,"  she  went  on, 
addressing  me  again,  "  that  my  sister  and  1  have  a  large 
collection  of  my  mother's  letters,  addressed  to  my  father 
and  to  hers.  In  the  absence  of  any  other  means  of  getting 
information,  T  will  pass  the  morning  in  looking  over  my 
mother's  correspondence  with  Mr.  Fairlie.  He  was  fond 
of  Loudon,  and  was  constantly  away  from  his  country 
home;  and  she  was  accustomed  at  such  times  to  write  and 
report  to  him  how  things  went  on  at  Limmeridge.  Her 
letters  are  full  of  references  to  the  school  in  which  she  took 
so  stron^f  an  interest;  and  I  think  it  more  than  likely  that 
I  may  have  discovered  something  when  we  meet  again. 
The  luncheon  hour  is  two,  Mr.  Hartright.  1  shall  have 
the  pleasure  of  introducing  you  to  my  sister  by  that  time, 
and  we  will  occupy  the  afternoon  in  driving  round  the 
neighborhood  and  showing  you  all  our  pet  points  of  view. 
Till  two  o'clock,  then,  farewell." 

She  nodded  to  me  with  the  lively  grace,  the  delightful 
refinement  of  familiarity,  which  characterized  all  that  she 
did  and  all  that  she  said;  and  disappeared  by  a  door  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  room.  As  soon  as  she  had  left  me,  I 
turned  my  steps  toward  the  hall,  and  followed  the  servant 
on  my  way,  for  the  first  time,  to  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Fairlie. 


vn. 


My  conductor  led  me  upstairs  into  a  passage  which  took 
us  back  to  the  bed-chamber  in  which  1  had  slept  during 
the  past  night;  and  opening  the  door  next  to  it,  begged  me 
CO  look  in. 

"  I  have  my  master's  orders  to  show  you  your  own  sit- 
ting-room, sir,"  said  the  man,  "  and  to  inquire  if  you  ap- 
prove of  the  situation  and  the  light." 


THE    WOMAN     IN     WHITE.  35 

I  must  have  betMi  hard  to  please,  iucleed,  if  I  had  uot  ap- 
proved of  the  room,  aud  of  everything  about  it.  The  bow- 
vfindosv  looked  out  on  the  same  lovely  view  U'hich  I  had 
admired,  in  the  morning,  from  my  bedroom.  The  furni- 
ture was  the  perfection  of  luxury  and  beauty;  the  table  in 
the  center  was  bright  with  gayly  bound  books,  elegant 
conveniences  for  writing,  and  beautiful  tiowers:  the  second 
table,  near  the  v/indow,  was  covered  with  all  the  necessary 
materials  for  mounting  water-color  draw/ngs,  and  had  a 
little  easel  attached  to  it,  which  I  could  expand  or  fold  up 
at  will;  the  walls  were  hung  with  gayly  tinted  chintz;  and 
the  floor  was  spread  with  Indian  matting  in  maize  color 
and  red.  It  was  the  prettiest  and  most  luxurious  little  sit- 
ting-room I  had  ever  seen;  and  I  admired  it  with  the 
warmest  enthusiasm. 

The  solemn  servant  was  far  too  highly  trained  to  betray 
the  slightest  satisfaction.  He  bowed  with  icy  deference 
when  my  terms  of  eulogy  were  all  exhausted,  and  silently 
opened  the  door  for  me  to  go  out  into  the  passage  again. 

We  turned  a  corner,  aud  entered  a  long  second  passage, 
ascended  a  short  flight  of  stairs  at  the  end,  crossed  a  small 
circular  upper  hall,  and  stopped  in  front  of  a  door  covered 
with  dark  baize.  The  servant  opened  this  door,  and  led 
me  on  a  few  yards  to  a  second;  opened  that  also,  and  dis- 
closed two  curtains  of  jiale  sea-green  silk  hanging  before 
us;  raised  one  of  them  noiselessly;  softly  uttered  tlie 
words,  "  Mr.  llartright,"  aud  left  me. 

I  found  myself  in  a  large,  lofty  room,  with  a  magnificent 
carved  ceiling,  and  with  a  carpet  over  the  floor,  so  thick 
and  soft  that  it  felt  like  piles  of  velvet  under  my  feet.  One 
side  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  a  long  book-case  of  some 
rare  inlaid  wood  that  was  quite  new  to  me.  It  was  not 
more  than  six  feet  high,  and  the  top  was  adorned  with 
statuettes  in  marble,  ranged  at  regular  distances  one  from 
the  othei'.  On  the  opposite  side  stood  two  antique  cabinets; 
and  between  them,  aud  above  them,  hui'g  a  picture  of  the 
Virgin  and  Child,  protected  by  glass,  and  bearing  Raphael's 
name  on  the  gilt  tablet  at  the  bottom  of  the  frame.  On 
my  right  hand  and  on  my  left,  as  I  stood  inside  the  door, 
were  chiffoniers  and  little  stands  in  buhl  and  marqueterie, 
loaded  with  figures  in  Dresden  china,  with  rare  vases, 
ivory  ornaments,  and  toys  and  curiosities  that  sparkled  at 
all  points  with  gold_,  silver,  and  precious  stoues.     At  the 


86  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

lower  end  of  the  room,  opposite  to  me,  the  windows  were 
concealed  and  the  sunlight  was  tempered  by  large  blinds  of 
the  same  pale  sea-green  color  as  the  curtains  over  the  duor. 
The  light  thus  produced  was  deliciously  soft,  mysterious, 
and  subdued;  it  fell  equally  upon  all  the  objects  in  the 
room;  it  helped  to  intensify  the  deep  silence,  and  the  air  of 
profound  seclusion  that  possessed  the  place;  and  it  sur- 
rounded, with  an  appropriate  halo  of  repose,  the  solitary 
figure  of  the  master  of  the  .house,  leaning  back,  listlessly 
composed,  in  a  large  easy-chair,  with  a  reading-easel  fast- 
ened on  one  of  its  arms,  and  a  little  table  on  the  other. 

If  a  man's  personal  appearance,  when  he  is  out  of  his 
dressing-room,  and  when  he  has  passed  forty,  can  be  ac- 
cepted as  a  safe  guide  to  his  time  of  life — which  is  more 
than  doubtful — Mr.  Fairlie's  age,  when  I  saw  him,  might 
have  been  reasonably  computed  at  over  fifty  and  under 
sixty  years.  His  beardless  face  was  thin,  worn,  and  trans- 
parently pale,  but  not  wrinkled;  his  nose  was  high  and 
hooked;  his  eyes  were  of  a  dim  grayish  blue,  large,  promi- 
nent, and  rather  red  round  the  rims  of  the  eyelids;  his  hair 
was  scanty,  soft  to  look  at,  and  of  that  light  sandy  color 
which  is  the  last  to  disclose  its  own  changes  toward  gray. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  dark  frock-coat,  of  some  substance 
much  thinner  than  cloth,  and  in  waistcoat  and  trousers  of 
spotless  white.  His  feet  were  effeminately  small,  and  were 
clad  in  buff-colored  silk  stockings,  and  little  womanish 
bronze-leather  slippers.  Two  rings  adorned  his  white  deli- 
cate hands,  the  value  of  which  even  my  inexperienced  ob- 
servation detected  to  be  all  but  priceless.  Upon  the  whole, 
he  hail  a  frail,  languidly  fretful,  overrefiued  look — some- 
thing singularly  and  unpleasantly  delicate  in  its  association 
with  a  man,  and,  at  the  same  time,  something  which  could 
by  no  possibility  have  looked  natural  and  appropriate  if  it 
had  been  transferred  to  the  personal  appearance  of  a  wom- 
an. My  morning's  experience  of  Miss  Halcombe  had  pre- 
disposed nie  to  be  pleased  with  everybody  in  the  house;  but 
my  sympathies  shut  themselves  up  resolutely  at  the  first 
sight  of  Mr.  Fairlie. 

On  approaching  nearer  to  him,  I  discovered  that  he  was 
not  so  entirely  without  occupation  as  I  had  at  first  sup- 
posed. Placed  amid  the  other  rare  and  beautiful  objects 
on  a  large  round  table  near  him,  was  a  dwarf  cabinet  in 
ebony  and  silTer,  containing  coins  of  all  shapes  and  sizes. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  B7 

set  out  in  little  drawers  lined  with  dark  purple  velvet. 
One  of  these  drawers  lay  on  the  small  table  attached  to  his 
chair;  and  near  it  were  some  tiny  jeweler's  brushes,  a 
wash-leather  "stump,"  and  a  little  bottle  of  liquid,  all 
waiting  to  be  used  in  various  ways  for  the  removal  of  any 
accidental  impurities  which  might  be  discovered  on  the 
coins.  His  frail  white  fingers  were  listlessly  toying  with 
something  which  looked,  to  my  uninstructed  eyes,  like  a 
dirty  pewter  medal  with  ragged  edges,  when  1  advanced 
within  a  resjDectful  distance  of  his  chair,  and  stopped  to 
make  my  bow. 

"  So  glad  to  possess  you  at  Limmeridge,  Mr.  Hart- 
right,"  he  said,  in  a  querulous,  croaking  voice,  which  com- 
bined, in  anything  but  an  agreeable  manner,  a  discordant- 
ly high  tone  with  a  drowsily  languid  utterance.  "  Pray  sit 
down.  And  don't  trouble  yourself  to  move  the  chair, 
please.  In  the  wretched  state  of  my  nerves,  movement  of 
any  kind  is  exquisitely  painful  to  me.  Have  you  seen  your 
studio?    Will  it  do?" 

"  I  have  just  come  from  seeing  the  room,  Mr.  Fairlie; 
and  I  assure  you — " 

He  stopped  me  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence,  by  closing 
his  eyes,  and  holding  up  one  of  his  white  hands  imploring- 
ly. 1  paused  in  astonishment;  and  the  croaking  voice  hon- 
ored me  with  this  explanation: 

"  Pray  excuse  me.  But  could  you  contrive  to  speak  in 
a  lower  key?  In  the  wretched  state  of  my  nerves,  loud 
sound  of  any  kind  is  indescribable  torture  to  me.  You  will 
pardon  an  invalid?  I  only  say  to  you  what  the  lamentable 
state  of  my  health  obliges  me  to  say  to  everybody.  Yes. 
And  you  really  like  thb  room?" 

"  1  could  wish  for  nothing  prettier  and  nothing  more 
comfortable,"  I  answered,  dropping  my  voice,  and  begin- 
ning to  discover  already  that  Mr.  Fairlie's  selfish  affectation 
and  Mr.  Fairlie's  wretched  nerves  meant  one  and  the  same 
thing. 

"  So  glad.  You  will  find  your  position  here,  Mr=  Hart- 
right,  properly  recognized.  There  is  none  of  the  horrid 
English  barbarity  of  feeling  about  the  social  position  of  an 
artist,  in  this  house.  So  much  of  my  early  life  has  been 
passed  abroad,  that  I  have  quite  cast  my  insular  skin  in 
that  respect.  ]  wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  the  gentry — 
detestable  word,  but  I  suppose  1  must  use  it — of  the  gentry 


38  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

in  the  neighborhood.  They  are  sad  Goths  in  Art,  Mr. 
Hartrigiit.  People,  I  do  assure  you,  who  would  have 
opened  their  eyes  in  astonishment  if  they  had  seen  Charles 
the  Fifth  pick  up  Titian's  brush  for  him.  Do  you  mind 
putting  this  tray  of  coins  back  in  the  cabinet,  and  giving 
me  the  next  one  to  it?  In  the  wretched  state  of  my 
nerves,  exertion  of  any  kind  is  unspeakably  disagreeable 
to  me.     Yes.     Thank  you.*' 

As  a  practical  commentary  on  the  liberal  social  theory 
which  he  had  just  favored  me  by  illustrating,  Mr.  Fairlie's 
cool  request  rather  amused  me.  1  put  back  one  drawer  and 
gave  him  the  other,  wiih  all  possible  politeness,  lie  be- 
gan trifling  with  the  new  set  of  coins  and  the  little  brushes 
immediately;  languidly  looking  at  them  and  admiring 
them  all  the  time  he  was  speaking  to  me. 

"  A  thousand  thanks  and  a  thousand  excuses.  Do  you 
like  coins?  Yes.  So  glad  we  have  another  taste  in  com- 
mon besides  our  taste  for  Art.  Now,  about  th3  pecuniary 
arrangements  between  us — do  tell  me — are  tiivy  satisfac- 
tory?" 

"  Most  satisfactory,  Mr.  Fairlie.'' 

"  So  glad.  And — what  next?  Ah!  I  remember.  Yes, 
in  reference  to  the  consideration  which  you  are  good  enough 
to  accept  for  giving  me  the  benetit  of  your  accomplish- 
ments in  art,  my  steward  will  wait  on  you  at  the  end  of 
the  first  week,  to  ascertain  your  wishes.  And— what  next? 
Curious,  is  it  not?  1  had  a  great  deal  more  to  say;  and  I 
appear  to  have  quite  forgotten  it.  Do  you  mind  touching 
the  bell?     In  that  corner.     Yes.     Thank  you.*' 

I  rang;  and  a  new  servant  noiselessly  made  his  appear- 
ance— a  foreigner,  with  a  set  smile  and  perfectly  brushed 
hair — a  valet  every  inch  of  him. 

"  Louis,"  said  Mr.  Fairlie,  dreamily  dusting  the  tips  of 
his  fingers  with  one  of  the  tiny  brushes  for  the  coins,  "  J 
made  some  entries  in  my  tablets  this  morning.  Find  my 
tablets.  A  thousand  pardons,  Mr.  Hartright,  I'm  afraid 
I  bore  you." 

As  he  wearily  closed  his  eyes  again,  before  1  could  an- 
swer, and  as  he  did  most  assuredly  bore  me,  I  sat  silent, 
and  looked  up  at  the  Madonna  and  Child  by  Kaphael.  In 
the  meantime,  the  valet  left  the  room,  and  returned  short- 
ly wilh  a  little  ivory  book.  Mr.  Fairlie,  after  first  reliev- 
ing himself   by  a  gentle  sigh,  let  the  book  drop  open  with 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  39 

one  hand,  and  held  up  the  tiny  brush  with  the  other,  as  a 
sign  to  the  servant  to  wait  for  farther  orders. 

"  Yes.  Just  so!"  said  Mr.  Fairlie,  consulting  the 
tablets.  "  Louis,  take  down  that  portfolio."  He  pointed, 
as  he  spoke,  to  several  portfolios  placed  near  the  window, 
on  mahogany  stands.  "  No.  Not  the  one  with  the  green 
back — that  contains  my  Rembrandt  etchings,  Mr.  Hart- 
nght.  Do  you  like  etchings?  Yes?  So  glad  we  have  an- 
other taste  in  common.  The  portfolio  with  the  red  back, 
Louis.  Don't  drop  it!  You  have  no  idea  of  the  tortures 
1  should  suffer,  Mr.  Hartright,  if  Louis  dropped  that  port- 
folio. Is  it  safe  on  the  chair?  Do  you  think  it  safe,  Mr. 
Hartright?  Y^es?  So  glad.  Will  you  oblige  me  by  look- 
ing at  the  drawings,  if  you  really  think  they  are  quite  safe. 
Louis,  go  away.  What  an  ass  you  are!  Don't  you  see  me 
holding  the  tablets?  Do  you  suppose  I  want  to  hold  them? 
Then  why  not  relieve  me  of  the  tablets  without  being  told? 
A  thousand  pardons,  Mr.  Hartright;  servants  are  such 
asses,  are  they  not?  Do  tell  me — what  do  you  think  of 
the  drawings?  They  have  come  from  a  sale  in  a  shocking 
state  —  1  thought  they  snielled  of  horrid  dealers'  and 
brokers'  fingers  when  1  looked  at  the  last.  Can  you  un- 
dertake them?" 

Although  my  nerves  were  not  delicate  enough  to  detect 
the  odor  of  plebeian  fingers  which  had  offended  Mr.  Fair- 
lie's  nostrils,  my  taste  was  sufhciently  educated  to  enable 
me  to  appreciate  the  value  of  the  drawings,  while  1  turned 
them  over.  They  were,  for  the  most  part,  really  fine 
specimens  of  English  water-color  Art;  and  I  hey  had  de- 
served much  better  treatment  at  the  hands  of  their  former 
possessor  than  they  appeared  to  have  received. 

"  The  drawings,"  1  answered,  "  require  careful  strain- 
ing and  mounting;  and,  in  my  opinion,  they  are  well 
worth—" 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,"  interposed  Mr.  Fairlie.  "  Do 
you  mind  my  closing  my  eyes  while  you  speak?  Even  thl' 
light  is  too  much  for  them.     Yes?" 

"  I  was  about  to  say  that  the  drawings  are  well  v'0''th  all 
the  time  and  trouble — " 

Mr.  Fairlie  suddenly  opened  his  eyes  again,  and  rolled 
them  with  an  expression  of  helpless  alarm  in  the  directioD. 
-f  the  window. 

"  1  entreat  you  to  excuse  me,  Mr.  Hartright,"  he  said;, 


40  THE    WOMAN    i:S    WHITE. 

in  a  feeble  flutter.  "  But  surely  1  hetti  some  horrid  chil- 
dreu  in  tiie  garden — my  private  garden — below?" 

"  I  can't  say,  Mr.  Fairlie.     1  lioard  nothing  myself." 

"  Obh'ge  me— you  have  been  so  very  good  in  humoring 
my  poor  nerves — oblige  me  by  lifting  up  a  corner  of  the 
blind.  Don't  let  the  sun  in  on  me.  Mr.  Hartright!  Have 
you  got  the  blind  up?  Yes?  Then  will  you  be  so  very 
kind  as  to  look  into  the  garden  and  make  quite  sure?" 

1  complied  with  this  new  request.  The  garden  was  care- 
fully walled  in,  all  round.  Not  a  human  creature,  large 
or  small,  appeared  in  any  part  of  the  sacred  seclusion.  I 
reported  that  gratifying  fact  to  Mr.  Fairlie. 

"  A  thousand  thanks.  My  fancy,  1  suppose.  There  are 
no  children,  thank  Heaven,  in  the  house;  but  the  servants 
(persons  born  without  nerves)  will  encourage  the  children 
from  the  village.  Such  brats — oh,  dear  me,  such  brats! 
Shall  I  confess  it,  Mr.  Hartright? — I  sadly  want  a  reform 
in  the  construction  of  children.  Nature's  only  idea  seems 
to  be  to  make  them  machines  for  the  production  of  inces- 
sant noise.  Surely  our  delightful  Eaffaello's  conception  is 
intinitely  preferable?" 

He  pointed  to  the  picture  of  the  Madonna,  the  upper 
part  01  svhich  represented  the  conventional  cherubs  of 
Italian  Art,  celestially  provided  with  sitting  accommoda- 
"iion  for  their  chins,  on  balloons  of  buff-colored  cloud. 

"  Quite  a  model  family!"  said  Mr.  Fairlie,  leering  at  the 
cherubs.  "  Such  nice  round  faces,  and  such  nice  soft 
wings,  and  —  nothing  else.  No  dirty  little  legs  to  run 
about  on,  and  no  noisy  little  lungs  to  scream  with.  ]low 
immeasurably  superior  to  the  existing  construction!  I  will 
close  my  eyes  again,  if  you  will  allow  me.  And  you  really 
can  manage  the  drawings?  So  glad.  Is  there  anything 
else  to  settle?  if  there  is,  I  think  I  have  forgotten  it.  Shall 
we  ring  for  Louis  again?" 

Being,  by  this  time,  quite  as  anxious  on  my  side  as  Mr. 
Fairlie  evidently  was  on  his,  to  bring  the  interview  to  a 
speedy  conclusion,  I  thought  I  would  try  to  render  the 
summoning  of  the  servant  unnecessary,  by  offering  the  re- 
quisite suggestion  on  my  own  responsibility. 

"  The  only  point,  Mr.  Fairlie,  that  remains  to  be  dis- 
cussed," I  said,  "  refers,  1  think,  to  the  instruction  in 
sketching  which  1  am  engaged  to  communicate  to  the  two 
young  ladies," 


THE    WOMAN    IK    WHITE.  41 

**  Ah!  just  so,"  said  Mr.  Fairlie.  *'  I  wish  I  felt  strong 
enough  to  go  into  that  part  of  the  arrangement — but! 
don't.  The  ladies,  who  profit  by  your  kind  services,  Mr. 
Hartright,  must  settle,  and  decide,  and  so  on,  for  them- 
selves. My  niece  is  fond  of  your  charming  art.  She  knows 
just  enough  about  it  to  be  conscious  of  her  own  sad  defects. 
Please  take  pains  with  her.  Yes.  Is  there  anything  else? 
No.  We  quite  understand  each  other— don't  we?  I  have 
no  right  to  detain  you  any  longer  from  your  delightful 
pursuit — have  I?  So  pleasant  to  have  settled  everything — 
such  a  sensible  relief  to  have  done  business.  Do  you  mind 
ringing  for  Louis  to  carry  the  portfolio  to  your  own 
room?" 

"  I  will  carry  it  there  myself,  Mr.  Fairlie,  if  you  will 
allow  me.'' 

"  Will  you  really?  Are  you  strong  enough?  How  nice 
to  be  so  strong!  Are  you  sure  you  won't  drop  it?  So  glad 
to  possess  you  at  Limmeridge,  Mr.  Hartright.  1  am  such 
a  sufferer  that  1  hardly  dare  hope  to  enjoy  much  of  your 
society.  Would  you  mind  taking  great  pains  not  to  let 
the  doors  bang,  a'ld  not  to  drop  the  portfolio?  Thank 
you.  Gently  with  the  curtains,  please — the  slightest  noise 
from  them  goes  through  me  like  a  knife.  Yes.  Good- 
morning!'" 


•  1" 


When  the  sea-green  curtains  were  closed,  and  when  the 
two  baize  doors  were  shut  behind  me,  I  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  little  circular  hall  beyond,  and  drew  a  long, 
luxurious  breath  of  relief.  It  was  like  coming  to  the  sur- 
face of  the  water  after  deep  diving,  to  find  myself  once 
more  oa  the  outside  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  room. 

As  soon  as  I  was  comfortably  established  for  the  morn- 
ing in  my  pretty  little  studio,  the  first  resolution  at  which 
1  arrived  was  to  turn  my  steps  no  more  in  the  direction  of 
the  apartments  occupied  by  the  master  of  the  house,  ex- 
cept in  the  very  improbable  event  of  his  honoring  me  with 
a  special  invitation  to  pay  him  another  visit.  Having  set- 
tled this  satisfactory  plan  of  future  conduct,  in  reference  to 
Mr.  Fairlie,  1  soon  recovered  the  serenity  of  temper  of 
which  my  employer's  haughty  familiarity  and  impudent 
politeness  had,  for  the  moment,  deprived  me.  The  re- 
maining hours  of  the  morning  passed  away  pleasantly 
enough,  in  looking  over  the  drawings,  arranging  them  iu 


42  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

sets,  trimming  their  ragged  edges,  and  accomplishing  the 
other  necessary  preparations  in  anticipation  of  the  business 
of  mounting  them.  1  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  made  more 
progress  than  this;  but,  as  the  luncheon-time  drew  near,  I 
grew  restless  and  unsettled,  and  felt  unable  to  fix  my  atten- 
tion on  work,  even  though  that  work  was  only  of  the  hum- 
ble manual  knid. 

At  two  o'clock,  I  descended  again  to  the  breakfast-room, 
a  little  anxiously.  Expectations  of  some  interest  were 
connected  with  my  approaching  reappearance  in  that  part 
of  the  house.  My  introduction  to  Miss  Fairlie  was  now 
close  at  hand;  and,  if  Miss  Halcombe's  search  through  hei 
mother's  letters  had  produced  the  i-esult  which  she  antici- 
pated, the  time  had  come  for  clearing  up  the  mystery  of 
the  woman  in  white. 


VIII. 

When  I  entered  the  room,  I  found  Miss  Halcombe  and 

an  elderly  lady  seated  at  the  luncheon-table. 

The  elderly  lady,  when  1  was  presented  to  her,  proved  to 
be  Miss  Fairlie's  former  governess,  Mrs.  Vesey,  who  had 
been  briefly  described  to  me  by  my  lively  companion  at  the 
breakfast-table,  as  possessed  of  "  all  the  cardinal  virtues, 
and  counting  for  nothing.^'  I  can  do  little  more  than  offer 
my  humble  testimony  to  the  truthfulness  of  Miss  Hal- 
combe's sketch  of  the  old  lady's  character.  Mrs.  Vesey 
looked  the  personification  of  human  composure  and  female 
amiability.  A  calm  enjoyment  of  a  calm  existence  beamed 
in  drowsy  smiles  on  her  plump,  placid  face.  Some  of  us 
rush  through  life,  and  some  of  us  saunter  through  life. 
Mrs.  Vesey  sat  through  life.  Sat  in  the  house,  early  and 
late;  sat  in  the  garden;  sat  in  unexpected  window-seats  in 
passages;  sat  (on  a  camp-stool)  when  her  friends  tried  to 
take  her  out  walking;  sat  before  she  looked  at  anything, 
before  she  talked  of  anything,  before  she  answered  Yes,  or 
No,  to  the  commonest  question — always  with  the  same 
serene  smile  on  her  lips,  the  same  vacantly  attentive  turn 
of  her  head,  the  same  snugly  comfortable  position  of  her 
nands  and  arms,  under  every  possible  change  of  domestic 
circumstances,  A  mild,  a  compliant,  an  unutterably  tran- 
quil and  harmless  old  lady,  who  never  by  any  chance  sug- 
^t'sLed  the  idea  that  she  had  been  actually  alive  since  the 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  43 

hour  of  her  birth.  Nature  has  so  much  to  do  in  this  v^orld, 
and  is  engaged  in  generating  such  a  vast  variety  of  co-ex- 
istent productions,  that  she  must  surely  be  now  aud  then 
too  flurried  and  confused  to  distinguish  between  the  differ- 
ent processes  that  she  is  ca-Tyiug  on  at  the  same  time. 
Starting  fn.im  this  j^oint  of  view,  it  will  always  remain  my 
private  persuasion  that  Nature  was  absorbed  in  making 
cabbages  when  Mrs.  Vesey  was  born,  and  that  the  good 
lady  sutiered  the  consequences  of  a  vegetable  preoccupation 
in  the  mind  of  the  Mother  of  us  all. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Vesey,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  looking 
brighter,  sharper,  and  readier  than  ever,  by  contrast  with 
the  undemonstrative  old  lady  at  her  side,  "  what  will  you 
have?     A  cutlet?" 

Mrs.  Vesey  crossed  her  dimpled  hands  on  the  edge  of  the 
table;  smiled  placidly;  and  said,  "  Yes,  dear." 

"  What  is  that  opposite  Mr.  Hartright?  Boiled  chicken, 
is  it  not?  I  thought  you  liked  boiled  chicken  better  than 
cutlet,  Mrs.  Vesey?" 

Mrs.  Vesey  took  her  dimpled  hands  off  the  edge  of  the 
table  and  crossed  them  on  her  lap  instead;  nodded  contem- 
platively at  the  boiled  chicken,  and  said,  "  Yes,  dear." 

"Well,  but  which  will  you  have  to-day?  Shall  Mr. 
Hartright  give  you  some  chicken?  or  shall  I  give  you  some 
cutlet?" 

Mrs.  Vesey  put  one  of  her  dimpled  hands  back  again  on 
the  edge  of  the  table,  hesitated  drowsily,  aud  said,  '*  Which 
you  please,  dear." 

"  Mercy  on  me!  it's  a  question  for  your  taste,  my  good 
lady,  not  for  mine.  Suppose  you  have  a  little  of  both?  and 
suppose  you  begin  with  the  chicken,  because  Mr.  Hartright 
looks  devoured  by  anxiety  to  carve  for  you." 

Mrs.  Vesey  put  the  other  dimpled  hand  back  on  the  edge 
of  the  table,  brightened  dimly,  one  moment;  went  out 
again,  the  next;  bowed  obediently;  and  said,  *'  If  you 
please,  sir." 

Surely  a  mild,  a  compliant,  an  unutterably  tranquil  and 
harmless  old  lady?  But  enough,  perhaps,  for  the  present, 
of  Mrs.  Vesey. 

All  this  time,  there  were  no  signs  of  Miss  Fairlie.  We 
finished  our  luncheon;  and  still  she  never  appeared.  Miss 
Halcombe,  whose  quick  eye  wothing  escaped,  noticed  th& 


44  THE    WOMAN'    IN    WHITE. 

looks  that  I  cast,  from  time  to  time,  ia  the  direction  of  the 
door. 

"  1  understand  you,  Mr.  Hartright,*'  she  said;  "  you  are 
wondering  what  has  become  of  your  other  pupil.  She  has 
been  down-stairs,  and  has  got  over  her  headache;  but  has 
not  sufficiently  recovered  her  appetite  to  join  us  at  lunch. 
If  you  will  put  yourself  under  my  charge,  I  think  1  can 
undertake  to  find  her  somewhere  in  the  garden.'* 

She  took  uj)  a  parasol,  lying  on  a  chair  near  her,  and  led 
the  way  out,  by  a  long  window  at  the  bottom  of  the  room, 
which  opened  on  to  tlie  lawn.  It  is  almost  unnecessary  to 
say  that  we  left  Mrs,  Vesey  still  seated  at  the  table,  with 
her  dimpled  hands  still  crossed  on  the  edge  of  it;  appar- 
ently settled  in  that  position  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 

As  we  crossed  the  lawn.  Miss  Halcombe  looked  at  me 
significantly,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  That  mysterious  adventure  of  yours,"  she  said,  "  still 
remains  involved  in  its  own  appropriate  midnight  dark- 
ness. I  have  been  ail  the  morning  looking  over  my  moth- 
er's letters,  and  I  have  made  no  discoveries  yet.  However, 
don't  despair,  Mr.  llartright.  This  is  a  matter  of  curiosity; 
and  you  have  got  a  woman  for  your  ally.  [Jnder  such  con- 
ditions success  is  certain,  sooner  or  later.  The  letters  are 
not  exhausted.  I  have  three  packets  still  left,  and  you 
may  confidently  rely  on  my  spending  the  whole  evening 
over  them. " 

Here,  then,  was  one  of  my  anticipations  of  the  morning 
still  unfulfilled.  I  began  to  wonder,  next,  whether  my 
introduction  to  Miss  Fairlie  would  disappoint  the  expecta- 
tions that  I  had' been  forming  of  her  since  breakfast-tirae. 

"  And  how  did  you  get  on  with  Mr.  Fairlie?"  inquired 
Miss  Halcombe,  as  we  left  the  lawn  and  turned  into  a 
shrubbery.  "  Was  he  particularly  nervous  this  morning? 
Never  mind  considering  about  your  answer,  Mr.  Hartright. 
The  mere  fact  of  your  being  obliged  to  cont-ider  is  enough 
for  me.  1  see  in  your  face  that  he  7vas  particidarly  nerv- 
ous; and,  as  I  am  amiably  unwilling  to  throw  you  into  the 
same  condition,  I  ask  no  more." 

AVe  turned  off  into  a  winding  path  while  she  was  speak- 
ing, and  approached  a  pretty  summer-house,  built  of  wood, 
in  the  form  of  a  miniature  Swiss  chalet.  The  one  room  of 
the  summer-house,  as  we  ascended  the  steps  of  the  door, 
was  occupied  by  a  young  lady.     She  was  standing  near  a 


The  woman  in  WHltfi.  43 

rustic  table,  looking  out  at  the  inland  view  of  moor  aad 
hill  presented  by  a  gap  in  the  trees,  and  absently  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  a  little  sketch-book  that  lay  at  her  side. 
This  was  Miss  Fairlie. 

How  can  I  describe  her?  How  can  I  separate  her  from 
my  own  sensations,  and  from  all  that  has  happened  in  the 
later  time?  How  can  I  see  her  again  as  she  looked  when 
my  eyes  first  rested  on  her — as  she  should  look,  now,  to 
the  eyes  that  are  about  to  see  her  in  these  pages? 

The  water-color  drawing  that  I  made  of  Laura  Fairlie, 
at  an  after  period,  in  the  place  and  attitude  in  which  1  first 
«aw  her,  lies  on  my  desk  while  1  write.  I  look  at  it,  and 
there  dawns  upon  me  brightly,  from  the  dark  greenish- 
brown  background  of  the  summer-house,  a  light,  youthful 
figure,  clothed  in  a  simple  muslin  dress,  the  pattern  of  it 
formed  by  broad  alternate  stripes  of  delicate  blue  and 
white.  A  scarf  of  the  same  material  sits  crisply  and  close- 
ly round  her  shoulders,  and  a  little  straw  hat  of  the  natural 
color,  plainly  and  sparingly  trimmed  with  ribbon  to  match 
the  gown,  covers  her  head,  and  throws  its  soft  pearly 
shadow  over  the  upper  part  of  her  face.  Her  hair  is  of  so 
faint  and  pale  a  brown — not  flaxen,  and  yet  almost  as  light; 
not  golden,  and  yet  almost  as  glossy — that  it  nearly  melts, 
here  and  there,  into  the  shadow  of  the  hat.  It  is  plainly 
parted  and  drawn  back  over  her  ears,  and  the  line  of  ifc 
ripples  naturally  as  it  crosses  her  forehead.  The  eyebrows 
are  rather  darker  than  the  hair;  and  the  eyes  are  of  that 
soft  limpid,  turquois-blue,  so  often  sung  by  the  poets,  so 
seldom  seen  in  real  life.  Lovely  eyes  in  color,  lovely  eyes 
in  form — large  and  tender  and  quietly  thoughtful — but 
beautiful  above  all  things  in  the  clear  truthfulness  of  look 
that  dwells  in  their  inmost  depths,  and  shines  through  all 
their  changes  of  expression  with  the  light  of  a  purer  and  a 
better  world.  The  charm — most  gently  and  yet  most  dis- 
tinctly expressed — which  they  shed  over  the  whole  face,  so 
covers  and  transforms  its  little  natural  human  blemishes 
elsewhere,  that  it  is  difllicult  to  estimate  the  relative  merits 
and  defects  of  the  other  features.  It  is  hard  to  see  that 
the  lower  part  of  the  face  is  too  delicately  refined  away  to- 
ward the  chin  to  be  in  full  and  fair  proportion  witli  the 
upper  part;  that  the  nase,  in  escaping  the  aquiline  bend 
(always  hard  and  cruel  in  a  woman,  no  matter  how  ab- 
stractedly perfect  it  may  be),  has  erred  a  little  in  the  other 


46  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

extreme,  and  has  missed  the  ideal  straightness  of  line;  and 
that  the  sweet,  sensitive  lips  are  subject  to  a  slight  nervous 
contraction,  when  she  smiles,  which  draws  them  upward  a 
little  at  one  corner,  toward  the  cheek.  It  might  be  possi- 
ble to  note  these  blemishes  in  another  woman's  face,  but  it 
is  not  easy  to  dwell  on  them  in  hers,  so  subtily  are  they 
connected  with  all  that  is  individual  and  characteristic  in 
her  expression,  and  so  closely  does  the  expression  depend 
for  its  fidl  play  and  life,  in  every  other  feature,  on  the 
moving  impulse  of  the  eyes. 

Does  my  poor  portrait  of  her,  my  fond,  patient  labor  of 
long  and  happy  days,  show  me  these  things?  Ah,  how  few 
of  them  are  in  the  dim  mechanical  drawing,  and  how  many 
in  the  mind  with  which  I  regard  it!  A  fair,  delicate  girl, 
in  a  pretty  light  dress,  trifling  with  the  leaves  of  a  sketch- 
book, while  she  looks  up  from  it  with  truthful,  innocent 
blue  eyes — that  is  all  the  drawing  can  say;  all,  perhaps, 
that  even  the  deeper  reach  of  thought  and  pen  can  say  in 
their  language,  either.  The  woman  who  first  gives  life, 
light,  and  form  to  our  shadowy  conceptions  of  beauty,  tills 
a  void  in  our  spiritual  nature  that  has  remained  unknown 
to  us  till  she  appeared.  Sympathies  that  lie  too  deep  for 
words,  too  deep  almost  for  thoughts,  are  touched,  at  such 
times,  by  other  charms  than  those  which  the  senses  feel 
and  which  the  resources  of  expression  can  realize.  The 
mystery  which  underlies  the  beauty  of  women  is  never 
raised  above  the  reach  of  all  expression  until  it  has  claimed 
kindred  with  the  deeper  mystery  in  our  own  souls.  Then, 
and  then  only,  has  it  passed  beyond  the  narrow  region  on 
which   light  falls,  in  this  world,  from  the  pencil  and  the 

Think  of  her  as  you  thought  of  the  first  woman  who 
quickened  the  pulses  within  you  that  the  rest  of  her  sex 
had  no  art  to  stir.  Let  the  kind,  candid  blue  eyes  meet 
yours,  as  they  met  mine,  with  the  one  matchless  look  which 
we  both  remember  so  well.  Let  her  voice  speak  the  music 
that  you  once  loved  best,  attuned  as  sweetly  to  your  ear  as 
10  mine.  Let  her  footstep,  as  she  comes  and  goes,  in  these 
pages,  be  like  that  other  footsteps  to  whose  airy  fall  your 
own  heart  once  beat  time.  Takt  her  as  the  visionary 
nursling  of  your  own  fancy;  and  she  will  grow  upon  you, 
all  the  more  clearly  as  the  living  woman  who  dwells  in 
mine. 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE.  47 

Among  the  sensations  that  crowded  on  me,  when  my 
eyes  tirst  looked  upon  her — familiar  sensations  which  we 
all  know,  which  spring  to  life  in  most  of  our  hearts,  die 
agaiu  in  so  many,  and  renew  their  bright  existence  in  so 
few — there  was  one  that  troubled  and  perplexed  me:  one 
that  seemed  strangely  inconsistent  and  unaccountably  out 
of  place  in  Miss  Fairlie's  presence. 

Mingling  with  the  vivid  impression  produced  by  the 
charm  of  her  fair  face  and  head,  her  sweeL  expression,  and 
her  winning  simplicity  of  manner,  was  another  impressinn, 
which,  in  a  shadowy  way,  suggested  to  me  the  idea  of 
■  something  wanting.  At  one  time  it  seemed  like  something 
wanting  in  her;  at  another,  like  something  wanting  in  my- 
self, which  hindered  me  from  understanding  her  as  1  ought. 
The  impression  was  always  strongest,  in  the  most  contra- 
dictory manner,  when  she  looked  at  me;  or  in  other  words, 
when  I  was  most  conscious  of  the  harmony  and  charm  of 
her  face,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  most  troubled  by  the 
sense  of  an  incompleteness  which  it  was  impossible  to  dis- 
cover. Something  wanting,  something  wanting — and  where 
it  was,  and  what  it  was,  I  could  not  say. 

The  effect  of  this  curious  caprice  of  fancy  (as  1  thought 
it  then)  was  not  of  a  nature  to  set  me  at  my  ease,  during  a 
first  interview  with  Miss  Fairlie.  The  few  kind  words  of 
welcome  which  she  spoke  found  me  hardly  self-possessed 
enough  to  thank  her  in  the  customary  phrases  of  reply. 
Observing  my  hesitation,  and  no  doubt  attributing  it, 
naturally  enough,  to  some  momentary  shyness  on  my  part. 
Miss  Halcombe  took  the  business  of  talking,  as  easily  and 
readily  as  usual,  into  her  own  hands. 

"  Look  there,  Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the 
sketch-book  on  the  table,  and  to  the  little  delicate  wander- 
ing hand  that  was  still  trifling  with  it.  "  Surely  you  will 
acknowledge  that  your  model  pupil  is  found  at  last?  The 
moment  she  hears  that  you  are  in  the  house,  she  seizes  her 
inestimable  sketch-hook,  looks  universal  Nature  straight  in 
the  face,  and  longs  to  begin!" 

Miss  Fairlie  laughed  with  a  ready  good-humor,  which 
broke  out  as  brightly  as  if  it  had  been  part  of  the  sunshine 
above  us,  over  her  lovely  face. 

"  I  must  not  take  credit  to  myself  where  no  credit  is 
due,''  she  said,  her  clear,  truthful  blue  eyes  looking  alter- 
nately at  Miss  Halcombe  and  at  me.     "  Fond  as  1  am  oC 


48  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

drawing,  1  am  so  conscious  of  my  own  ignorance  that  3 
am  more  afraid  thiin  anxious  to  begin.  Now  1  know  you 
are  here,  Mr.  Hartright,  I  find  myself  looking  over  my 
sketclies,  as  1  used  to  look  over  my  lessons  whbu  1  was  a 
little  girl,  and  when  I  was  sadly  afraid  that  I  should  turn 
out  not  fit  to  be  heard." 

She  made  the  confession  very  prettily  and  simply,  and, 
with  quaint,  childish  earnestness,  drew  the  sketch-book 
away  close  to  her  own  side  of  the  table.  Miss  Halcombe 
cut  the  knot  of  the  little  embarrassment  forthwith,  in  her 
resolute,  downright  way. 

*'  Good,  bad,  or  indifferent,"  she  said,  "  the  pupil's 
sketches  must  pass  through  the  fiery  ordeal  of  the  master's 
judgment — and  there's  an  end  of  it.  Suppose  we  take 
them  with  us  in  the  carriage,  Laura,  and  let  Mr.  Ilartrighi; 
see  them,  for  the  first  time,  under  circumstances  of  per- 
petual jolting  and  interruption?  If  we  can  only  confuse 
him  all  through  the  drive,  between  Nature  as  it  is,  when 
he  looks  up  at  the  view,  and  N;iture  as  it  is  not,  when  he 
looks  dowti  again  at  our  sketch-books,  we  shall  drive  him 
into  the  last  desperate  refuge  of  paying  us  compliments, 
and  shall  slip  through  his  professional  fingers  with  our  pet 
feathers  of  vanity  all  unruffled." 

"  1  hope  Mr.  Hartright  will  pay  me  no  compliments," 
said  Miss  Fairlie,  as  we  all  left  the  summer-house. 

"  May  I  venture  to  inquire  why  you  express  that  hope?" 
I  asked. 

"  Because  I  shall  believe  all  that  you  say  to  me,"  she 
answered,  simply. 

In  those  few  words  she  unconsciously  gave  me  the  key  to 
her  whole  character;  to  that  generous  trust  in  others  which, 
in  her  nature,  grew  innocently  out  of  the  seuse  of  her  own 
truth.  1  only  knew  it  intuitively  then.  1  know  it  by  ex° 
perience  now. 

We  merely  waited  to  rouse  good  Mrs.  Vesey  from  the 
place  which  she  still  occupied  at  the  deserted  luncheon- 
table,  before  we  entered  the  open  carriage  for  our  promised 
drive.  The  okl  lady  and  Miss  Halcombe  occupied  the  back 
seat;  and  Miss  Fairlie  and  1  sat  together  in  front,  with  the 
sketch-book  open  between  us,  fairly  exhibited  at  last  to  my 
professional  eyes.  All  serious  criticism  oa  the  drawings, 
5ven  if  I  had  been  disposed  to  volunteer  it,  was  rendered 
impossible  by  Miss  Halcombe's  lively  resolution  to  see  uoth- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  49 

ing  but  the  ridiculous  side  of  the  Fine  Arts,  as  practiced  by 
herself,  her  sister,  aud  ladies  iu  geueral.  I  can  reineuiber 
tlie  cojiversatiou  that  passed  far  more  easily  than  the 
sketches  that  1  mechanically  looked  over.  That  part  of 
the  talk,  especially,  in  which  Miss  Fairlie  took  any  share  is 
still  as  vividly  impressed  on  my  memory  as  if  I  had  heard 
it  only  a  few  hours  ago. 

Yes  I  let  me  acknowledge  that,  on  this  first  day,  I  let  tiie 
charm  of  her  presence  lure  me  from  the  recollection  of 
myself  and  my  position.  The  most  trifling  of  the  questions 
that  she  put  to  me,  on  the  subject  of  using  her  pencil  and 
mixing  her  colors;  the  slightest  alterations  of  expressions 
in  the  lovely  eyes  that  looked  into  mine,  with  such  an  earn- 
est desire  to  learn  all  that  I  could  teach,  and  to  discover  all 
that  I  could  show,  attracted  more  of  my  attention  than  the 
finest  view  we  passed,  through,  or  the  grandest  changes  of 
light  and  shade,  as  they  flowed  into  each  other  over  the 
waving  moorland  and  the  level  beach.  At  any  time,  and 
under  any  circumstances  of  human  interest,  is  it  not  strange 
to  see  how  little  real  hold  the  objects  of  the  natural  world 
amid  which  we  live  can  gain  on  our  hearts  and  minds? 
We  go  to  Nature  for  comfort  in  trouble,  and  sympathy  in 
joy,  only  in  books.  Admiration  of  those  beauties  of  the 
inanimate  world,  which  modern  poetry  so  largely  and  so 
eloquently  describes,  is  not,  even  in  the  best  of  us,  one  of 
the  original  itistincts  of  our  nature.  As  children,  we  none 
of  us  possess  it.  No  uninstructed  man  or  woman  possesses 
it.  Those  whose  lives  are  most  exclusively  passed  amid  the 
ever-changing  wonders  of  sea  and  land  are  also  those  who 
are  most  universally  insensible  to  every  aspect  of  Nature 
not  directly  associated  with  the  human  interest  of  their 
calling.  Our  capacity  of  appreciating  the  beauties  of  the 
earth  we  live  on  is,  in  truth,  one  of  the  civilized  accom- 
plishments which  we  all  learn,  as  an  Art;  and,  more,  that 
very  capacity  is  rarely  practiced  by  any  of  us  exce^jt  when 
our  minds  are  most  indolent  and  most  unoccupied.  How 
much  share  have  the  attractions  of  Nature  ever  had  in  the 
pleasurable  or  painful  interests  and  emotions  of  ourselves 
or  our  friends?  What  space  do  they  ever  occupy  in  the 
thousand  little  narratives  of  personal  esperience  which  pass 
every  day  by  word  of  mouth  from  one  of  us  to  the  other? 
All  that  our  minds  can  compass,  all  that  our  liearts  can 
learn,  can  be  accomplished  with  equal   certainty,  equal 


50  THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

profit,  and  equal  satisfaction  to  ourselves,  in  the  poorest  as 
in  the  richest  prospect  that  the  face  of  the  earth  can  show. 
There  is  surely  a  reason  for  this  want  of  inborn  syrapath} 
between  the  creature  and  the  creation  around  it,  a  reason 
wiiich  may  perhaps  be  found  in  the  widely  differing  des- 
tinies of  man  and  his  earthly  sjjhere.  The  grandest  mount- 
ain prospect  that  the  eye  can  range  over  is  appointed  to 
annihilation.  The  smallest  human  interest  that  the  pure 
heart  can  feel  is  appointed  to  immortality. 

We  had  been  out  nearly  three  hours,  when  the  carriage 
again  passed  through  the  gates  of  Limmeridge  House. 

On  our  way  back,  1  had  let  the  ladies  settle  for  them- 
selves the  first  point  of  view  which  they  were  to  sketch,  ur.- 
der  my  instructions,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day. 
When  they  withdrew  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  when  1  was 
alone  again  in  my  little  sitting-room,  my  spirits  seemed  to 
leave  me  on  a  sudden.  I  felt  ill  at  ease  and  dissatisfied 
with  myself,  I  hardly  knew  why.  Perhaps  I  was  now  con- 
scious, for  the  first  time,  of  having  enjoyed  our  drive  too 
much  in  the  character  of  a  guest,  and  too  little  in  the  char- 
acter of  a  drawing-master.  Perhaps  that  strange  sense  of 
something  wanting,  either  in  Miss  Fairlie  or  in  myself, 
which  had  perplexed  me  when  I  was  first  introduced  to  her, 
haunted  me  still.  Anyhow,  it  was  a  relief  to  my  spirits 
when  the  dinner-hour  called  me  out  of  my  solitude,  and 
took  me  back  to  the  society  of  the  ladies  of  the  house. 

I  was  strucik,  on  entering  the  drawing-room,  by  the  curi- 
ous contrast,  rather  in  material  than  in  color,  of  the  dresses 
which  they  now  wore.  VV^hile  Mrs.  Vesey  and  Miss  Hal- 
combe  were  richly  clad  (each  in  the  manner  most  becoming 
to  her  age),  the  first  in  silver-gray,  and  the  second  in  that 
delicate  primrose-yellow  color  which  matches  so  well  with 
a  dark  complexion  and  black  hair,  Miss  Fairlie  was  unpre- 
tendingly and  almost  poorly  dressed  in  plain  white  muslin. 
1*;  was  spotlessly  pure;  it  was  beautifully  put  on;  but  still 
it  was  the  sort  of  dress  which  the  wife  or  daughter  of  a 
poor  man  might  have  worn;  and  it  made  her,  so  far  as  ex- 
ternals went,  look  less  affluent  in  circumstances  than  her 
own  governess.  At  a  later  period,  when  1  learned  to  know 
more  of  Miss  Fairlie's  character,  1  discovered  that  this 
curious  contrast,  on  the  wrong  side,  was  due  to  her  natural 
delicacy  of  feeling  and  natural  intensity  of  aversion  to  the 
slightest  personal  display  of  her  own   wealth.       Neither 


THE    WOMAN-    IN"    WHITE.  61 

Mrs.  Vesey  nor  Miss  Halcoaibe  cjuIcI  ever  induce  her  to 
let  the  advantage  in  dress  desert  the  two  ladies  who  were 
poor,  to  lean  to  the  side  of  the  one  lady  wlio  was  rich. 

When  the  dinner  was  over,  we  returned  together  to  the 
drawing-room.  Although  Mr.  Fairlie  (emulating  the 
magnificent  condescension  of  the  monarch  who  had  picked 
up  Titian's  brush  for  him)  had  instructed  his  butler  to 
3onsult  my  wishes  in  relation  to  the  wine  that  I  might  pre- 
fer after  dinner,  I  was  resolute  enough  to  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  sitting  in  solitary  grandeur  among  bottles  of  my 
own  choosing,  and  sensible  enough  to  ask  the  ladies'  per- 
mission to  leave  the  table  with  them  habitually,  on  the 
civilized  foreign  plan,  during  the  period  of  my  residence  at 
Liraraeridge  House. 

The  drawing-room,  to  vvnich  we  had  now  withdrawn  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening,  was  on  the  ground  floor,  and  was 
of  the  same  shape  and  size  as  the  breakfast-room.  Large 
glass  doors  at  the  lower  end  opened  on  to  a  terrace,  beauti- 
fully ornamented  along  its  whole  length  with  a  profusion 
of  flowers.  The  soft  hazy  twilight  was  Just  shading  leaf 
and  blossom  alike  into  harmony  with  its  own  sober  hues, 
as  we  entered  the  room;  and  the  sweet  evening  scent  of  the 
flowers  met  us  with  its  fragrant  welcome  through  the  open 
glass  doors.  Good  Mrs.  Vesey  (always  the  first  of  the 
party  to  sit  down)  took  possession  of  an  arm-chair  in  a  cor- 
ner, and  dozed  otf  comfortably  to  sleep.  At  my  request. 
Miss  Fairlie  placed  herself  at  the  piano.  As  1  followed  her 
to  a  seat  near  the  instrument,  I  s;ivv  Miss  Halcombe  retire 
into  a  recess  of  one  of  the  side  windows,  to  proceed  with 
the  search  through  her  mother's  letters  by  the  last  quiet 
rays  of  the  evening  light. 

How  vividly  that  peaceful  home-picture  of  the  drawing- 
room  comes  back  to  me  while  1  Write!  From  the  place 
where  1  sat  I  could  see  Miss  Halcombe's  graceful  figure, 
half  of  it  in  soft  light,  half  in  mysterious  shadow,  bending 
intently  over  the  letters  in  her  lap;  while,  nearer  to  mt, 
the  fair  profile  of  the  player  at  the  piano  was  just  delicate- 
ly defined  against  the  faintly  deepening  background  of  the 
inner  wall  of  the  room.  Outside,  on  the  terrace,  the  clus- 
tering flowers  and  long  grasses  and  creepers  waved  so  gen- 
tly in  the  light  evening  air,  that  the  sound  of  their  rustling 
never  reached  us.  The  sky  was  without  a  cloud;  and  (he 
dawning  mystery  of  moonlight  began  to  tremble  alirady  in 


62  THt:    WOMAK-    II?    WHITE. 

the  region  of  the  eastern  heaven.  The  sense  of  peace  and 
gechision  soothed  all  thought  and  feeiing  into  a  nipt,  un- 
earthly repose;  and  the  balmy  (juiet  that  deepened  ever 
with  the  deepening  light,  seemed  to  liover  over  us  with  a 
gentler  influence  still,  when  there  stole  ui^on  it  fi(»m  ihe 
piano  the  heavenly  tenderness  of  the  music  of  Mozart,  it 
'vas  an  evening  of  sights  and  sounds  never  to  forget. 

We  all  sat  silent  in  the  places  we  had  chosen — Mrs.  Ve:^ej 
still  sleeping,  Miss  Fairlie  still  playing,  Miss  Halcombe  stili 
reading — till  the  light  failed  us.  By  this  time  the  moon 
had  stolen  round  to  the  terrace,  and  soft  mysterious  rays 
of  light  were  slanting  already  across  the  lower  end  of  the 
room.  The  change  from  the  twilight  obscurity  was  so 
beautiful,  that  we  banished  the  lamps,  by  common  con- 
sent, when  the  servant  brought  them  in,  and  kept  the  large 
room  unlighted,  except  by  the  glii>jmer  of  the  two  candles 
at  the  piano. 

For  half  an  hour  more  the  music  still  went  on.  After 
that,  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight  view  on  the  terrace 
tempted  Miss  Fairlie  out  to  look  at  it;  and  I  followed  her. 
When  the  candles  at  the  piano  had  been  lighted.  Miss  Hal- 
combe had  changed  her  place,  so  as  to  continue  her  exami- 
nation of  the  letters  by  their  assistance.  We  left  her,  on  a 
low  chair,  at  one  side  of  the  instrument,  so  absorbed  over 
her  reading  that  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  when  we 
moved. 

We  had  been  out  on  the  terrace  together,  just  in  front  of 
the  glass  doors,  hai'dly  so  long  as  five  minutes,  I  should 
think;  and  Miss  Fairlie  was,  by  my  advice,  just  tying  her 
white  handkerchief  over  her  head  as  a  precaution  against 
the  night  air — when  I  heard  Miss  Halcombe's  voice — low, 
eager,  and  altered  from  its  natural  lively  tone — pronounce 
my  name. 

"  Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said,  "  will  you  come  here  for  a 
minute?     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

I  entered  the  room  again  immediately.  The  piano  stood 
about  half-way  down  along  the  inner  wall.  On  the  side  of 
the  instrument  furthest  from  the  terrace.  Miss  Halcombe 
was  sitting  with  the  letters  scattered  on  her  lap,  and  with 
one  in  her  hand  selected  from  them,  and  held  close  to  the 
candle.  On  the  side  nearest  to  the  terrace  there  stood  a 
low  ottoman,  on  which  I  took  mv  [uace.  In  this  posit ilr^,, 
1  was  not  far  from  the  glass  doors;  and  I  could  see  Miss 


THE    WOMAN    IN"     <\'HITE.  53 

Fairlie  plainly,  as  slie  passed  and  repassed  the  opening  on 
to  the  terract;;  walking  slowly  from  end  to  end  of  it  in  the 
full  radiance  of  the  moon. 

"  1  want  you  to  listen  while  I  read  the  concluding  pas- 
sages in  this  letter,"  said  Miss  Haloombo.  "  Tell  me  if 
you  think  they  throw  any  light  upon  your  strange  advent- 
ure on  the  road  to  London,  The  letter  is  addressed  by  my 
mother  to  her  second  husband,  Mr.  Fairlie;  and  the  date 
refers  to  a  period  of  between  eleven  and  twelve  years  since. 
At  that  time,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Faiiiie,  and  my  half-sisteiL* 
Laura,  had  been  living  for  years  in  this  house;  and  I  was 
away  from  them,  completing  my  education  at  a  school  in 
Paris." 

kShe  looked  and  spoke  earnestly,  and,  as  I  thought,  a  lit- 
tle uneasily  as  well.  At  the  moment  when  she  raised  the 
letter  to  the  candle  before  beginning  to  read  it.  Miss  Fair- 
lie  passed  us  on  the  terrace,  looked  in  for  a  moment,  and, 
seeing  that  we  were  engaged,  slowly  walked  on. 

Miss  Halcombe  began  to  read,  as  follows: 

"  '  You  will  be  tired,  my  dear  Philip,  of  hearing  per- 
petually about  my  schools  and  my  scholars.  Lay  the 
blame,  pray,  on  the  dull  uniformity  of  life  at  Limmeridge, 
and  not  on  me.  Besides,  this  time,  1  have  something 
really  interesting  to  tell  you  about  a  new  scholar. 

"  '  You  know  old  Mrs.  Kempe  at  the  village  shop. 
Well,  after  years  of  ailing,  the  doctor  has  at  last  given  her 
up,  and  she  is  dying  slowly,  day  by  day.  Her  only  living 
relation,  a  sister,  arrived  last  week  to  take  care  of  her. 
This  sister  comes  all  the  way  from  Hampshire — her  name 
is  Mrs.  Catherick.  Four  days  ago  Mis.  Catherick  came 
here  to  see  me,  and  brought  her  only  child  with  her,  a 
sweet  littte  girl  about  a  year  older  than  our  darling 
Laura — '  " 

As  the  last  sentence  fell  from  the  reader's  lips.  Miss 
Fairlie  passed  us  on  the  terrace  once  more.  She  was  softly 
singing  to  herself  one  of  the  melodies  which  she  had  been 
playing  earlier  in  the  evening.  Miss  Halcombe  waited  till 
she  had  passed  out  of  sight  again,  and  then  went  on  with 
the  letter: 

"  '  Mrs,  Catherick  is  a  decent,  well-behaved,  respectable 
womauj  middle-aged,  and  with  the  j  emains  of  having  been 


54  THF.   woArAisr   in   white. 

moderately,  only  moderately,  nice-looking.  There  is  some- 
tliiiig  in  her  manner  and  in  her  appearance,  however, 
which  I  can't  make  out.  She  is  reserved  about  herself  to 
(li3  point  of  downright  Becrecy;  and  there  is  a  look  in  her 
tuce — I  can't  describe  it— whicii  suggests  to  me  that  she 
has  something  on  her  mind.  She  is  altogether  what  you 
would  call  a  walking  mystery.  Iler  errand  at  Limmeridge 
House,  however,  was  simple  enough.  When  she  left  Hamp- 
ihire  to  nurse  her  sister,  Mrs.  Kempe,  through  her  last  ill- 
ness, she  had  been  obliged  to  bring  her  daughter  with  her, 
through  having  no  one  at  home  to  take  care  of  the  little 
girl.  Mrs.  Kempe  may  die  in  a  week's  time,  or  may  linger 
on  for  months;  and  Mrs.  Catherick's  object  was  to  ask  me 
to  let  her  daughter,  Anne,  have  the  benefit  of  attending 
my  school;  subject  to  the  condition  of  her  being  removed 
from  it  to  go  home  again  with  lier  mother,  after  Mrs. 
Kempe's  death.  I  consented  at  once;  and  when  Laura 
and  I  went  out  for  our  walk,  we  took  the  little  girl  (who  is 
just  eleven  years  old)  to  the  school,  that  very  day.'  " 

Once  more  Miss  Fairlie's  figure,  bright  and  soft  in  its 
snowy  muslin  dress — her  face  prettily  framed  by  the  white 
folds  of  the  handkerchief  which  she  had  tied  under  her 
chin — passed  by  us  in  the  moonlight.  Once  more  Miss 
Halcombe  waited  till  she  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  went 
on: 

"  '  I  have  taken  a  violent  fancy,  Philip,  to  my  new 
scholar,  for  a  reason  which  I  mean  to  keep  to  the  last  for 
the  sake  of  surprising  you.  Her  mother  having  told  me  as 
little  about  the  child  as  she  told  me  of  herself,  1  was  left 
to  discover  (which  1  did  on  the  first  day  when  we  tried  her 
at  lessons)  that  the  poor  little  thing's  intellect  is  not  de- 
veloped as  it  ought  to  be  at  her  age.  Seeing  this,  I  had 
her  up  to  the  house  the  next  day,  and  privately  arranged 
with  the  doctor  to  come  and  watch  her  and  question  her, 
and  tell  me  what  he  thought.  His  opinion  is  that  she  will 
grow  out  of  it.  lint  he  says  her  careful  bringing  up  at 
school  is  a  matter  of  great  importance  just  now,  because 
her  unusual  slowness  in  acquiring  ideas  implies  an  unusual 
tenacity  in  keeping  them,  when  they  are  once  recfiived  into 
her  mind.  Now,  my  love,  you  must  not  imagine  in  your 
otf-hand  way,  that  1  have  been  attaching  myself  to  an  idiot. 
This  poor  little  Anue  Catherick  is  a  sweet,  affectionate. 


THE    WOMAN-    IN     WHITE.  55 

grateful  girl;  and  says  the  quaintest,  prettiest  things  (as 
you  shall  judge  by  an  instance),  in  the  most  oddly  sudden, 
surprised,  half-frightened  way.  Although  she  is  dressed 
very  neatly,  her  clothes  show  a  sad  want  of  taste  in  color 
and  pattern.  So  1  arranged,  yesterday,  that  some  of  our 
darling  Laura's  old  white  frocks  and  white  hats  should  be 
altered  for  Anne  Catherick;  explaining  to  her  that  little 
girls  of  her  complexion  looked  neater  and  better  all  in 
white  than  in  anything  else.  She  hesitated  and  seemed 
puzzled  for  a  minute;  then  flushed  up,  and  appeared  tc 
understand.  Her  little  hand  clasped  mine  suddenly.  She 
kissed  it,  Plulip;  and  said  (oh,  so  earnestly!),  "  I  wil 
always  wear  white  as  long  as  I  live.  It  will  help  me  to  re- 
member you,  ma'am,  and  to  think  that  I  am  pleasing  you 
still,  when  I  go  away  and  see  you  no  more."  This  is  onlj 
one  specimen  of  the  quaint  things  she  says  so  prettily. 
Poor  little  soul!  She  shall  have  a  stock  of  white  frocks, 
made  with  good  deep  tucks,  to  let  out  for  her  as  she 
grows — ' " 

Miss  Halcombe  paused,  and  looked  at  me  across  the 
piano. 

"  Did  the  forlorn  woman  whom  you  met  in  the  high- 
road seem  young?"  she  asked.  "  Young  enough  to  be 
two  or  three-and-twenty?" 

"  Yes,  Miss  Halcombe,  as  young  as  that.'' 

"  And  she  was  strangely  dressed,  from  head  to  foot,  all 
in  white?" 

"All  in  white." 

While  the  answer  was  passing  my  lips,  Miss  Fairlie  glided 
into  view  on  the  terrace,  for  the  third  time.  Instead  of 
proceeding  on  her  walk,  she  stopped,  with  her  back  turned 
toward  us;  and,  leaning  on  the  balustrade  of  the  terrace, 
looked  down  into  the  garden  beyond.  My  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  white  gleam  of  her  muslin  gown  and  head-dress  in  the 
moonlight,  and  a  sensation,  for  which  I  can  find  no  name 
— a  sensation  that  quickened  my  pulse,  and  raised  a  flut- 
tering at  my  heart — began  to  steal  over  me. 

"  All  in  white?"  Miss  Halcombe  repeated.  "  The  most 
important  sentences  in  the  letter,  Mr.  Hartright,  are  those 
at  the  end,  which  I  will  read  to  you  immediately.  But  I 
can't  help  drawing  a  little  upon  the  coincidence  of  the 
white  costume  of  the  woman,  you  met,  and  the  white  frocks 


56  THE    WOMAN    iK    -WHITE. 

which  produced  that  strange  answer  from  my  mother's  lit- 
tle schohir.  The  doctor  may  have  been  wrong  when  he 
discovered  she  child's  defects  of  intellect,  and  predicted 
that  the  would  '  grow  out  of  them.*  She  may  never  have 
grown  outof  them;  and  the  old  grateful  fancy  about  dress- 
ing in  white,  which  was  a  serious  feeling  to  the  girl,  may 
be  a  serious  feeling  to  the  woman  still." 

I  said  a  few  words  in  answer— I  hardly  know  what.  All 
my  attention  was  concentrated  on  the  white  gleam  of  Miss 
Fairlie's  muslin  dress. 

"  Listen  to  the  last  sentences  of  the  letter,"  said  Miss 
Halcombe.     "  I  think  they  vvill  surprise  you."" 

As  she  raised  the  letter  to  the  light  of  the  candle,  Miss 
Fairlie  turned  from  the  balustrade,  looked  doubtfully  up 
and  down  the  terrace,  advanced  a  step  toward  the  glass 
doors,  and  then  stopped,  facing  us. 

Meanv/hile,  Miss  Halcombe  read  me  the  last  sentences 
to  which  she  had  referred: 

*'  '  And  now,  my  love,  seeing  that  I  am  at  the  end  of 
my  paper,  now  for  the  real  reason,  the  surprising  reason, 
for  my  fondness  for  little  Anne  Catherick.  My  dear 
Philip,  although  she  is  not  half  so  pretty,  she  is,  neverthe- 
less, by  one  of  those  extraordinary  caprices  of  accidental 
resemblance  which  one  sometimes  sees,  the  living  likeness, 
in  her  hair,  her  complexion,  the  color  of  her  eyes,  and  the 
shape  of  her  face — '  " 

I  started  up  from  the  ottoman,  before  Miss  Halcombe 
could  pronounce  the  next  words.  A  thrill  of  the  same 
feeling  which  ran  through  me  when  the  touch  was  laid 
upon  my  shoulder  on  the  lonely  high-road,  chilled  me 
again. 

There  stood  Miss  Fairlie,  a  white  figure,  alone  in  the 
moonlight;  in  her  attitude,  in  the  turn  of  her  head,  in  her 
complexion,  in  the  shape  of  her  face,  the  living  image,  at 
that  distance  ?,nd  under  those  circumstances,  of  the  woman 
in  white!  The  doubt  which  had  troubled  my  mind  for 
hours  and  hours  past,  flashed  into  conviction  in  an  instant. 
That  "  something  wanting  *'  was  my  own  recognition  of 
the  ominous  likeness  between  the  fugitive  from  the  asylum 
and  my  pupil  at  Limmeridge  House. 

*'  You  see  it!"  said  Miss  Halcombe.     She  dropped  the 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  57 

useless  letter,  and  her  eyes  flashed  as  they  met  mine. 
"  You  see  it  now,  as  my  mother  saw  it  eleven  years  since!" 

"  I  see  it — more  unwillingly  than  I  can  say.  To  associ- 
ate that  forlorn,  friendless,  lost  woman,  even  by  an  acci- 
dental likeness  only,  with  Miss  Fairlie,  seems  like  casting  a 
shadow  on  the  future  of  the  bright  creature  who  stands 
looking  at  us  now.  Let  me  lose  the  impression  again,  as 
soon  as  possible.  Call  her  in,  out  of  the  dreary  moonlight 
—pray  call  her  in!'' 

*'  Mr.  Hartright,  you  surprise  me.  Whatever  women 
may  be,  I  thought  that  men,  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
were  above  superstition." 

"  Pray  call  her  in!" 

"  Hush,  hush!  She  is  coming  of  her  own  accord.  Say 
nothing  in  her  presence.  Let  this  discovery  of  the  likeness 
be  kept  a  secret  between  you  and  me.  Come  in,  Laura; 
come  in,  and  wake  Mrs.  Vesey  with  the  piano.  Mr.  Hart- 
right  is  petitioning  for  some  more  music,  and  he  wants  it 
this  time  of  the  lightest  and  liveliest  kind. " 


IX. 


So  ended  my  eventful  first  day  at  Limmeridge  House. 

Miss  Halcombe  and  I  kept  our  secret.  After  the  dis- 
covery of  tlie  likeness  no  fresh  light  seemed  destined  to 
break  over  the  mystery  of  the  woman  in  white.  At  the 
first  safe  opportunity  Miss  Halcombe  cautiously  led  her 
half-sister  to  speak  of  their  mother,  of  old  times,  and  of 
Anne  Catherick.  Miss  Fairlie's  recollections  of  the  little 
scholar  at  Limmeridge  were,  however,  only  of  the  most 
vague  and  general  kind.  She  remembered  the  likeness  be- 
tween herself  and  her  mother's  favorite  pupil,  as  something 
which  had  been  supposed  to  exist  in  past  times;  but  she 
did  not  refer  to  the  gift  of  the  white  dresses,  or  to  the  sin- 
gular form  of  words  in  which  the  child  had  artlessly  ex- 
piessed  her  gratitude  for  them.  She  remembered  that 
Anne  had  remained  at  Limmeridge  for  a  few  months  only, 
and  had  then  left  it  to  go  back  to  her  home  in  Hampshire; 
but  she  could  not  say  whether  the  mother  and  daughter 
had  ever  returned,  or  had  ever  been  heard  of  afterward. 
No  further  search  on  Miss  Halcombe 's  part,  through  the 
Uw  letters  of  Mrs,  Fairlie's  writing  which  she  had  left  un- 


rf8  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITK. 

ri'.\d  assisted  in  clearing  up  the  uncertainties  still  left  to 
jierplex  us.  We  had  identified  the  unhappy  woman  whom 
1  hiid  aiet  in  the  night-time  with  Anne  Catheriek — we  had 
made  some  advance,  at  least,  toward  connecting  the  proba- 
bly defective  condition  of  the  poor  creature's  intellect  with 
the  pecuharity  of  her  being  dressed  all  in  white,  and  with 
the  continuance,  in  her  maturer  years,  of  her  childish 
gratitude  toward  Mrs.  Fairlie — and  there,  so  far  as  we 
knew  at  that  time,  our  discoveries  had  ended. 

The  days  passed  on,  the  weeks  passed  on;  and  the  track 
of  the  golden  autumn  wound  its  bright  way  visibly  through 
the  green  summer  of  the  trees.  Peaceful,  fast-flowing, 
happy  time!  my  story  glides  by  you  now,  as  swiftly  as  you 
once  glided  by  me.  Of  all  the  treasures  of  enjoyment  that 
you  poured  so  freely  into  my  heart,  how  much  is  left  me 
that  has  purpose  and  value  enough  to  be  written  on  this 
page?  Nothing  but  the  saddest  of  all  confessions  that  a 
man  can  make — the  confession  of  his  own  folly. 

The  secret  which  that  confession  discloses  should  be  told 
with  little  effort,  for  it  has  indirectly  escaped  me  already. 
The  poor  weak  words  which  have  failed  to  describe  Miss 
Fairlie,  have  succeeded  in  betraying  the  sensations  she 
awakened  in  me.  It  is  so  with  us  all.  Our  words  are 
giants  when  they  do  us  an  injury,  and  dwarfs  when  they 
do  us  a  service. 

I  loved  her. 

Ah!  how  well  I  know  all  the  sadness  and  all  the  mockery 
that  is  contained  in  those  three  words.  I  can  sigh  over  my 
mournful  confession  with  the  tenderest  woman  who  reads 
it  and  pitins  me.  I  can  laugh  at  it  as  bitterly  as  the  hardest 
man  who  tosses  it  from  him  in  contempt.  1  loved  hevY 
Feel  for  me,  or  despise  me,  I  confess  it  with  the  same  im- 
movable resolution  to  own  the  truth. 

Was  there  no  excuse  for  me?  There  was  some  excuse  to 
be  found,  surely,  in  the  conditions  under  which  my  term 
of  hired  service  was  passed  at  Limmeridge  House. 

My  morning  hours  succeeded  each  other  calmly  in  the 
quiet  and  seclusion  of  my  own  room.  I  had  just  work 
enough  to  do,  in  mounting  my  employer's  drawings,  to 
keep  my  hands  and  eyes  pleasurably  employed,  while  my 
mind  was  left  free  to  enjoy  the  dangerous  luxury  of  its  own 
unbridled  thoughts.     A  perilous  solitude,  for  it  lasted  long 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  59 

enough  to  enervate,  not  long  enough  to  fortify  me.  A 
perilous  solitude,  for  it  was  followed  by  afternoons  and 
evenings  spent,  day  after  day  and  week  after  week,  alone 
in  the  society  of  two  women,  one  of  whom  possessed  all 
the  accomplisliments  of  grace,  wit,  and  high-breeding,  the 
other  all  the  charms  of  beauty,  gentleness,  and  simple 
truth,  that  can  purify  and  subdue  the  heart  of  man.  Not 
%  day  passed,  in  that  dangerous  intimacy  of  teacher  and 
pupil,  in  which  my  hand  was  not  close  to  Miss  Fairlie's; 
my  cheek,  as  we  bent  together  over  her  sketch-book, 
almost  touching  hers.  The  more  attentively  she  watched 
every  movement  of  my  brush,  the  more  closely  I  was 
breathing  the  perfume  of  her  hair  and  the  warm  fragrance 
of  her  breath.  It  was  part  of  my  service  to  live  in  the 
very  light  of  her  eyes — at  one  time  to  be  bending  over  her, 
so  close  to  her  bosom  as  to  tremble  at  the  thought  of 
touching  it;  at  another,  to  fpel  her-bending  over  me,  bend- 
ing so  close  to  see  what  1  was  about,  that  her  voice  sunk 
low  when  she  spoke  to  me,  and  her  ribbons  brushed  my 
cheek  in  the  wind  before  she  could  draw  them  back. 

The  evenings  which  followed  the  sketching  excursions  of 
the  afternoon,  varied,  rather  than  chcisked,  these  innocent, 
these  inevitable  familiarities.  My  natural  fondness  for  the 
music  which  she  played  with  such  tender  feeling,  such  deli- 
cate womanly  taste,  and  her  natural  enjoyment  of  giving 
me  back,  by  the  practice  of  her  art,  the  pleasure  which  I 
had  offered  to  her  by  the  practice  of  mine,  only  wove  an- 
other tie  which  drew  us  closer  and  closer  to  one  another. 
The  accidents  of  conversation;  the  simple  habits  which 
regulated  even  such  a  little  thing  as  the  position  of  our 
places  at  table;  the  play  of  Miss  Halcombe's  ever-ready 
raillery,  always  directed  against  my  anxiety,  as  teacher, 
while  it  sparkled  over  her  enthusiasm  as  pupil;  the  harm- 
less expression  of  poor  Mrs.  Vesey's  drowsy  approval  which 
connected  Miss  Fairlie  and  me  as  two  model  young  people 
who  never  disturbed  her — every  one  of  these  trifles,  and 
many  more,  combined  to  fold  us  together  in  the  same  do- 
mestic atm.sphere,  and  to  lead  us  both  insensibly  to  the 
same  hopeless  end. 

1  should  have  remembered  my  position,  and  have  put 
myself  secretly  on  my  guard.  I  did  so;  but  not  till  it  was 
too  late.  All  the  discretion,  all  the  experience,  which  had 
availed  me  with  other  ^omeu,  and  secured  me  against 


60  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

other  temptations,  failed  me  with  her.  It  had  been  my 
profession,  for  years  past,  to  bo  in  tiiis  close  contact  with 
voung  girls  of  all  ages,  and  of  all  orders  of  beauty.  ]  had 
accepted  the  position  as  part  of  my  calling  in  life;  1  had 
tiained  myself  to  leave  all  the  sympathies  natural  to  my 
ago  in  my  employer's  outer  hall,  as  coolly  as  I  left  my  um- 
brella there  before  1  went  upstairs.  I  had  long  since 
learned  to  understand,  compi»sediy  and  as  a  matter  of 
course,  that  my  situation  in  life  was  considered  a  guarantee 
against  any  of  my  female  pupils  feeling  more  than  the 
most  ordinary  interest  in  me,  and  that  I  was  admitted 
among  beautiful  and  captivating  women,  much  as  a  harm- 
less domestic  animal  is  admitted  among  them.  This  guard- 
ian experience  I  had  gained  early;  this  guardian  experience 
had  sternly  and  strictly  guided  me  straight  along  my  own 
poor  narrow  path,  without  once  l;tting  me  stray  aside,  to 
the  right  hand  or  to  the  left.  And  now  I  and  my  trusty 
talisman  were  parted  for  the  first  time.  Yes,  my  hardly 
earne;^  self-control  was  as  completely  lost  to  me  as  if  1  had 
never  possessed  it;  lost  to  me  as  it  is  lost  every  day  to 
other  men,  in  other  critical  situations,  where  women  are 
concerned.  I  know,  now,  that  I  should  have  questioned 
myself  from  the  first.  1  should  have  asked  why  any  room 
in  the  house  was  better  than  home  to  me  when  she  entered 
it,  and  barren  as  a  desert  when  she  went  out  again — why  1 
always  noticed  and  remembered  the  little  changes  in  her 
dress  that  I  had  noticed  and  remembered  in  no  other  wom- 
an's before — why  I  saw  her,  heard  her,  and  touched  her 
(when  we  shook  hands  at  night  and  morning)  as  1  had 
never  seen,  heard,  and  touched  any  other  woman  in  my 
life?  1  should  have  looked  into  my  own  heart,  and  found 
this  new  growth  springing  up  there,  and  plucked  it  out 
while  it  was  young.  Why  was  this  easiest,  simplest  work 
of  self-culture  always  too  much  for  me.''  The  explanation 
has  been  written  already  in  the  three  words  that  were  many 
enough,  and  plain  enough,  for  my  confession.  1  loved 
her. 

The  days  passed,  the  weeks  passed;  it  was  approaching 
the  third  month  of  my  stay  in  Cumberland.  The  delicious 
monotony  of  life  in  our  calm  seclusion,  flowed  on  with  me 
like  a  smooth  stream  with  a  swimmer  who  glides  down  the 
current.  All  memory  of  the  past,  all  thought  of  the  fut- 
ure, all  sense  of  the  falseness  and  hopelessness  of  my  own 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  61 

rosition,  lay  hushod  within  me  into  deceitful  rest.  Lulled 
y  the  Syren-song  that  my  own  heart  sung  to  me,  with  eyes 
shut  to  all  sight,  and  ears  closed  to  all  sound  of  danger,  1 
drifted  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  fatal  rocks.  The  warning 
that  aroused  me  at  last,  and  startled  me  into  sudden,  self- 
accusing  consciousness  of  my  own  weakness,  was  the 
plainest,  the  truest,  the  kindest  of  all  warnings,  for  it 
came  silently  from  her. 

We  had  parted  one  night,  as  usual,  No  word  had  fallen 
from  my  lips,  at  that  time  or  at  any  time  before  it,  that 
could  betray  me,  or  startle  her  into  sudden  knowledge  of 
the  truth.  But,  when  we  met  again  in  the  morning,  a 
change  had  come  over  her — a  change  that  told  me  all. 

I  shrunk  then— I  shrink  still — from  invading  the  inner- 
most sanctuary  of  her  heart,  and  laying  it  open  to  others, 
as  1  have  laid  open  my  own.  Let  it  be  enough  to  say  that 
the  time  when  she  first  surprised  my  secret  was,  I  firmly 
believe,  the  time  when  she  first  surprised  her  own,  and  the 
time,  also,  when  she  changed  toward  me  in  the  interval  of 
one  night.  Iler  nature,  too  truthful  to  deceive  others,  was 
too  noble  to  deceive  itself.  When  the  doubt  that  I  had 
hushed  asleep,  first  laid  its  weary  weight  on  her  heart,  the 
true  face  owned  all,  and  said,  in  its  own  frank,  simple 
language — I  am  sorry  for  him;  I  am  sorry  for  myself. 

It  said  this,  and  more,  vidiioh  I  could  not  then  interpret. 
1  ujiderstood  but  ioo  well  the  change  in  her  manner,  to 
greater  kindness  a^id  quicker  readiness  in  interpreting  all 
my  wishes,  before  others — to  constraint  and  sadness,  and 
nervous  anxiety  to  absorb  herself  in  the  first  occupation 
she  could  seize  on,  whenever  we  happened  to  be  left  to- 
_gethpr  alone.  I  understood  why  the  sweet  sensitive  lips 
smiled  so  rarely  and  so  restrainedly  now;  and  why  the 
clear  blue  eyes  looked  at  me,  sometimes  with  the  pity  of 
an  angel,  sometimes  with  the  innocent  perplexity  of  a 
child.  But  the  change  meant  more  than  this.  There  was 
a  coldness  in  her  hand,  there  was  an  unnatural  immobility 
in  her  face,  there  was  in  all  her  movements  the  mute  ex- 
pression of  constant  fear  and  clinging  self-rej^roach.  The 
sensations  that  I  could  trace  to  herself  and  to  me,  the  un- 
acknowledged sensations  that  we  were  feelmg  in  common, 
were  not  these.  There  were  certain  elements  of  the  change 
in  her  that  were  still  secetly  drawing  us  together,  and 
others  that  were  as  secretly  beginning  to  drive  us  apart. 


C3  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

In  my  doubt  and  perplexity,  in  my  vague  suspicion  of 
something  hidden  which  I  was  left  to  find  by  my  own  un- 
aided etTorts,  1  examined  Miss  Halcombe's  looks  and  man- 
ner for  enlightenment.  Living  in  such  intimacy  as  ours, 
no  serious  alteration  could  take  placeinany  one  of  us  which 
did  not  sympathetically  affect  the  others.  The  change  in 
Miss  Fairlie  was  reflected  in  her  half-sister.  Although  not 
a  word  escaped  Miss  Halcombe  which  hinted  at  an  altered 
state  of  feeling  toward  myself,  her  penetrating  eyes  had 
contracted  a  new  habit  of  always  watching  me.  Sometimes 
the  look  was  like  suppressed  anger;  sometimes  like  sup- 
pressed dread;  sometimes  like  neither — like  nothing,  in 
short,  which  I  could  understand.  A  week  elapsed,  leaving 
us  all  three  still  in  this  position  of  secret  constraint  toward 
one  another.  My  situation,  aggravated  by  the  sense  of  my 
own  miserable  weakness  and  t'orgetfulness  of  myself,  now 
too  late  awakened  in  me,  was  becoming  intolerable.  I  felt 
that  I  must  cast  off  the  oppression  under  which  1  was  liv- 
ing, at  once  and  forever— yet  how  to  act  for  the  best,  or 
what  to  say  first  was  more  than  1  could  tell. 

From  this  position  of  helplessness  and  humiliation,  1  was 
rescued  by  Miss  Halcombe.  Her  lips  told  me  the  bitter, 
the  necessary,  the  unexpected  truth;  her  hearty  kindness 
sustained  me  under  the  shock  of  hearing  it;  aiid  her  sense 
and  courage  turned  to  its  right  use  an  event  which  threat- 
ened the  worst  that  could  happen,  to  me  and  to  others,  in 
Limmeridge  House. 

X. 

It  was  on  a  Thursday  in  the  next  week,  and  nearly  ai 
'She  end  of  the  third  month  of  my  sojourn  in  Cumberland. 

In  the  morning,  when  1  went  down  into  the  breakfast- 
room,  at  the  usual  hour.  Miss  Halcombe,  for  the  first  time 
eince  I  had  known  her,  was  absent  from  her  customary 
place  at  the  table. 

Miss  Fairlie  was  out  on  the  lawn.  She  bowed  to  me,  but 
did  not  come  in.  Not  a  word  had  dropped  from  my  lips, 
or  from  hers,  that  could  unsettle  either  of  us — and  yet  tha 
same  unacknowledged  sense  of  embarrassment  made  us 
shrink  alike  from  meeting  each  other  alone.  She  waited 
on  the  lawn;  and  I  waited  in  the  breakfast-room,  til!  Mrs. 
Veaey  or  Miss  Halcombe  came  in.     How  quickly  I  should 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  63 

have  joined  her;  hcnv  readily  we  should  have  shaken  hands, 
and  glided  into  our  customary  talk,  only  a  fortnight  ago! 

In  a  few  iniuuLes  M'iss  lLil(;ouibe  entered.  She  had  a 
preoccupied  look,  and  dm  made  her  apologies  for  being 
late,  rather  absently. 

"  1  have  been  detained,"  she  said,  "  by  a  consultation 
with  Mr.  Fairlie  on  a  domestic  matter  which  he  wished  to 
speak  to  me  about." 

Miss  Fairlie  came  in  from  the  garden;  and  the  usual 
morning  greeting  passed  between  us.  Her  hand  struck 
colder  to  mine  than  ever.  She  did  not  look  at  me;  and 
she  was  very  pale.  Even  Mrs.  Vesey  noticed  it,  when  she 
entered  the  room  a  moment  after. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  the  change  in  the  wind,"  said  the  old 
lady.  "  The  winter  is  coming — ah,  my  love,  the  winter  is 
coming  soon!" 

In  her  heart  and  in  mine  it  had  come  already! 

Our  morning  meal — once  so  full  of  pleasant  good-hu- 
mored discussion  of  the  plans  for  the  day — was  short  and 
silent.  Miss  Fairhe  seemed  to  feel  the  oppression  of  the 
long  pauses  in  the  conversation;  atid  looked  appealingly  to 
her  sister  to  fill  them  up.  Miss  Halcombe,  after  once  or 
twice  hesitating  and  checking  herself,  in  a  most  unchar- 
acteristic manner,  spoke  at  last. 

"  I  have  seen  your  uncle  this  morning,  Laura,"  she 
said.  "  He  thinks  the  purple  room  is  the  one  that  ought 
to  be  got  ready;  and  he  confirms  what  I  told  you.  Mon- 
day is  the  day — not  Tuesday." 

While  these  words  were  being  spoken,  Miss  Fairlie  looked 
down  at  the  table  beneath  her.  Her  fingers  moved  nerv- 
ously among  the  crumbs  that  were  scattered  on  the  cloth. 
The  paleness  of  her  cheeks  spread  to  her  lips,  and  the  lips 
themselves  trembled  visibly.  I  was  not  the  only  person 
present  who  noticed  this.  Miss  Halcombe  saw  it  too;  and 
at  once  set  us  the  example  of  rising  from  table. 

Mrs.  Vesey  and  Miss  Fairlie  left  the  room  together. 
The  kind  sorrowful  blue  eyes  looked  at  me,  for  a  moment, 
with  the  prescient  sadness  of  a  coming  and  a  long  farewell. 
1  felt  the  answering  pang  in  my  own  heart — the  pang  that 
told  me  I  must  lose  her  soon,  and  love  her  the  more  un- 
changeably for  the  loss. 

1  turned  toward  the  garden  when  the  door  had  closed  on 
her.     Miss  Halcombe  was  standing  with  her  hat  in  her 


<4  THE    WOMAK    IN    WHITE. 

hand,  and  her  shawl  over  her  arm,  by  the  large  windoT, 
that  led  out  to  the  lawn,  and  was  looking  at  me  atten- 
tively. 

"  Have  you  any  leisure  time  to  spare,"  she  asked,  "  be- 
■fore  you  begin  to  work  in  your  own  room?" 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Halcombe.  i  have  always  time  at 
your  service." 

"  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you  in  private,  Mr.  Hartright. 
Get  your  hat  and  come  out  into  the  garden.  We  are  not 
likely  to  be  disturbed  there  at  this  hour  in  the  morning." 

As  we  stepped  out  on  to  the  lawn,  one  of  the  under-gar- 
deners — a  mere  lad — passed  us  on  his  way  to  the  house, 
with  a  letter  in  his  hand.     Miss  Halcombe  stopped  him. 

"  Is  that  letter  for  me?"  she  asked. 

"  Nay,  miss;  it's  just  said  to  be  for  Miss  Fairlie,"  an- 
swered the  lad,  holding  out  the  letter  as  he  spoke. 

Miss  Halcombe  took  it  l'*om  him,  and  looked  at  the  ad- 
dress. 

"  A  strange  handwriting,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  Who 
can  Laura's  correspondent  be?  V\^here  did  you  get  this?" 
she  continued,  addressing  the  gardener. 

"Well,  miss,"  said  the  lad,  "1  just  got  it  from  ^ 
woman." 

"What  woman?" 

"  A  woman  well  stricken  in  age." 

"  Oh,  an  old  woman.     Any  one  you  knew?" 

"  1  canna'  tak'  it  on  mysel'  to  say  that  she  was  other 
than  a  stranger  to  me." 

"  Which  way  did  she  go?" 

"That  gate,"  said  the  under-gardener,  turning  with 
great  deliberation  toward  the  south,  and  embracing  the 
whole  of  that  part  of  England  with  one  comprehensive 
sweep  of  his  arm. 

"  Curious,"  said  Miss  Halcombe;  "  1  suppose  it  must  be 
a  begging  letter.  There,"  she  added,  handing  the  letter 
back  to  the  lad,  "  take  it  to  the  house,  and  give  it  to  one 
of  the  servants.  And  now,  Mr.  Hartright,  if  you  have  no 
objection,  let  us  walk  this  way." 

She  led  me  across  the  lawn,  along  the  same  path  by 
which  I  had  followed  her  on  the  day  after  my  arrival  at 
Liiufueriilge.  At  the  little  summer-house  in  which  Laura 
Fairlie  and  I  had  first  se«n  each  other,  she  stopped,  and 


THE  womak  in   white.  65 

dYoke  (lie  silence  which  she  had  steadily  maintained  while 
we  were  walkiiisr  together. 

"  What  1  hu\c  to  i-iiy  to  you,  I  can  say  here." 

With  those  words  she  entered  the  suniiner-lwuse,  took 
one  of  tiie  chairs  at  Ih »  little  rouivd  table  inside,  and  signed 
to  mo  to  take  the  other.  1  suspected  what  was  coming 
when  she  spoke  to  me  in  the  breakfast-room;  I  felt  certain 
of  it  now. 

*'  Mr.  Hartright/'  she  said,  "  I  am  going  to  begin  by 
making  a  frank  avowal  to  you.  I  am  going  to  say — with- 
out phrase-making,  which  t  detest;  or  paying  compliments, 
which  J  heartily  despise — that  1  have  come,  in  the  course 
of  your  residence  with  us,  to  feel  a  strong  friendly  regard 
for  you.  1  was  predisposed  in  your  favor  when  your  first 
told  me  of  your  conduct  toward  that  unhappy  womai\ 
whom  you  met  under  such  remarkable  circumstances. 
Your  management  of  the  affair  might  not  have  been  pru« 
dent;  but  it  showed  the  self-control,  the  delicacy,  and  the 
compassion  of  a  man  who  was  naturally  a  gentleman.  It 
made  me  expect  good  things  from  vou;  and  you  have  not 
disappointed  my  expectations." 

She  paused — but  held  up  her  hand  at  the  same  time,  as 
a  sign  that  she  awaited  no  answer  from  me  before  she  pro- 
ceeded. When  I  entered  the  summer-house,  no  thought 
was  in  me  of  the  woman  in  white.  But,  now,  Miss  Hal- 
combe's  own  words  had  put  the  memory  of  my  adventure 
back  in  my  mind.  It  remained  there  throughout  the  in- 
terview— remained,  and  not  without  a  result. 

"  As  your  friend,"  she  proceeded,  "  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  at  once,  in  my  own  plain,  blunt,  downright  language, 
that  I  have  discovered  your  secret — without  help  or  hint, 
mind,  from  any  one  else.  Mr.  Hartright,  you  have 
thoughtlessly  allowed  yourself  to  form  an  attachment — a 
serious  and  devoted  attachment,  I  am  afraid — to  my  sis- 
ter, Laura.  1  don't  put  you  to  the  pain  of  confessing  it, 
in  so  many  words,  because  I  see  and  know  that  you  are  too 
honest  to  deny  it.  I  don't  even  blame  you— 1  pity  you  for 
opening  your  heart  to  a  hopeless  affection.  You  have  not 
attempted  to  take  any  underhand  advantage — you  have  not 
spoken  to  my  sister  in  secret,  Y'ou  are  guilty  of  weakness 
and  want  of  attention  to  your  own  best  interests,  but  of 
nothing  worse.  If  you  had  acted,  in  any  single  respect, 
less  delicately,  and  less  modestly,  I  should  have  told  you  to 

3 


C6  THK    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

leave  the  house,  without  aa  instant's  notice,  or  an  instant's 
consultation  of  anybody.  As  it  is,  I  blame  the  misfortuue 
of  your  years  and  your  position — I  don't  blame  t/ou.  Shake 
hands — 1  have  given  you  pain;  I  am  going  to  give  you 
more;  but  there  is  no  help  for  it — shaki^  hands  tvith  your 
friend,  Marian  Halcombe,  first." 

The  sudden  kindness — the  warm,  high-minded,  fearless 
sympathy  which  me  met  on  such  mercifully  equal  terms, 
which  appealed  with  such  delicate  and  generous  abruptness 
straight  to  my  heart,  my  honor,  and  my  courage,  overcame 
me  in  an  instant.  I  tried  to  look  at  her,  when  she  took 
my  hand,  but  my  eyes  were  dim.  I  tried  to  thank  her, 
but  my  voice  failed  me. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  she  said,  considerately  avoiding  all 
notice  of  my  loss  of  self-control.  "  Listen  to  me,  and  let 
us  get  it  over  at  once.  It  is  a  real  true  relief  to  me  thac  I 
am  not  obliged,  in  what  I  have  now  to  say,  to  enter  into 
the  question — the  hard  and  cruel  question  as  I  think  it — 
of  social  inequalities.  Circumstances  which  will  try  you  to 
the  quick,  spare  me  the  ungracious  necessity  of  paining  a 
man  who  has  lived  in  friendly  intimacy  under  the  same 
roof  with  myself  by  any  humiliating  reference  to  matters 
of  rank  and  station.  You  must  leave  Limmeridge  House, 
Mr.  Hartright,  before  more  harm  is  done.  It  is  my  duty 
to  say  that  to  you;  and  it  would  be  equally  my  duty  to  say 
it,  under  precisely  the  same  serious  necefisity,  if  you  were 
the  representative  of  the  oldest  and  wealthiest  family  in 
England.  You  must  leave  us,  not  because  you  are  a 
teacher  of  drawing — " 

She  waited  a  moment;  turned  her  face  full  on  me;  and, 
reaching  across  the  table,  laid  her  hand  firmly  on  my 
arm. 

"  Not  because  you  are  a  teacher  of  drawing,"  she  repeat- 
ed, *'  but  because  Laura  Fairlie  is  engaged  to  be  married." 

The  last  word  went  like  a  bullet  to  my  heart.  My  arm 
lost  all  sensation  of  the  hand  that  grasped  it.  I  never 
moved  and  never  spoke.  The  sharp  autumn  breeze  that 
scattered  the  dead  leaves  at  our  feet,  came  as  cold  to  me, 
on  a  sudden,  as  if  my  own  mad  hopes  were  dead  leaves, 
too,  whirled  away  by  the  wind  like  the  rest.  Hopes!  Be- 
trothed, or  not  betrothed,  she  was  equally  far  from  ;/?<?. 
Would  other  men  have  remembered  that  in  my  place?  Not 
.1  they  had  loved  her  as  I  did. 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  67 

The  pang  passed;  and  nothing  but  the  dull  i.iunbing 
pain  of  it  remained.  I  felt  Miss  Halcnmbe's  hand  again, 
tightening  its  hold  on  my  arm — 1  raised  my  head,  and 
looked  at  her.  Her  hirge  bhicli  eyes  were  rooted  on  mt', 
watching  the  white  change  on  my  face,  which  1  felt,  and 
which  she  saw. 

*'  Crush  it!"  she  said.  "  Here,  where  you  first  saw  her, 
crush  it!  Don't  shrink  under  it  like  a  woman.  Tear  it 
out;  tram]ole  it  under  foot  like  a  man!" 

The  suppressed  vehemence  with  which  she  spoke;  the 
strength  which  her  will — concentrated  in  the  look  she  fixed 
on  me,  and  in  the  hold  on  my  arm,  that  she  had  not  yet 
relinquished— communicated  to  mine,  steadied  me.  We 
both  waited  for  a  minute  in  silence.  At  the  end  of  that 
time,  1  had  justified  her  generous  faith  in  my  manhood;  I 
had,  outwardly  at  least,  recovered  my  self-control. 

"  Are  you  yourself  again}'" 

"  Enough  myself.  Miss  Halcombe,  to  ask  your  pardon 
and  hers.  Enough  myself,  to  be  guided  by  your  advice, 
and  to  prove  my  gratitude  in  that  way,  if  I  can  prove  it  in- 
uo  other. " 

"  You  have  proved  it  already,"  she  answered,  "  by  those 
words.  Mr.  Hartright,  concealment  is  at  an  end  between 
us.  I  can  not  affect  to  hide  from  yon,  what  my  sister  has 
unconsciously  shown  to  me.  You  must  leave  us  for  her 
sake,  as  well  as  for  your  own.  Your  presence  here,  your 
necessary  intimacy  with  us,  harmless  as  it  has  been,  God 
knows,  in  all  other  respects,  has  unsteadied  her  and  made 
her  wretched.  I,  who  love  her  better  than  my  own  life — 
I,  who  have  learned  to  believe  in  that  pure,  noble,  innocent 
nature  as  I  believe  in  my  religion — know  but  too  well  the 
secret  misery  of  self-reproach  that  she  has  been  suffering, 
since  the  first  shadow  of  a  feeling  disloyal  to  her  marriage 
engagement  entered  her  heart  in  si^ite  of  her.  1  don't  say 
— it  would  be  useless  to  attempt  to  say  it  after  what  has 
happened — that  her  engagement  has  ever  had  a  strong  hold 
on  her  affections.  It  is  an  engagement  of  honor,  not  of 
love — her  father  sanctioned  it  on  his  death-bed,  two  years 
since — she  herself  neither  welcomed  it  nor  shrunk  from  it 
• — she  was  content  to  make  it.  Till  you  came  here,  she  was 
in  the  position  of  hundreds  ot  other  ^romen,  who  marry 
men  without  being  greatly  attracted  to  them  or  great Iv 
repelled  by  them,  and  who  learn  to  love  them  (when  they 


68  THE    WOTWAW    IN"    WHITE. 

don't  learn  to  hate!)  after  marriage,  instead  of  before.  I 
hope  more  earnestly  than  words  can  say — and  you  should 
have  the  self-sacrificing  courage  to  hope  too — that  the  newr 
thoughts  and  feelings  which  have  disturbed  the  old  calm- 
ness and  the  old  content  have  uot  taken  root  too  deeply  to 
be  ever  removed.  Your  absence  (if  1  had  less  belief  in 
your  honor,  and  your  courage,  and  your  sense,  I  should 
not  trust  to  them  as  I  am  trusting  now) — your  absence  wilL 
help  my  efforts;  and  time  will  help  us  all  three.  It  is 
something  to  know  .that  my  first  confidence  in  you  was  not 
all  misplaced.  It  is  something  to  know  that  you  will  uot 
be  less  honest,  less  manly,  less  considerate  toward  the  pupil 
whose  relation  to  3'ourself  you  have  had  the  misfortune  to 
forget,  than  toward  the  stratiger  and  the  outcast  whose  ap- 
peal to  you  was  not  made  in  vain." 

Again  the  chance  reference  to  the  woman  in  white!  Was 
there  no  possibility  of  speaking  of  Miss  Fairlie  and  of  me 
without  raising  the  memory  of  Anne  Catherick,  and  setting 
her  between  us  like  a  fatality  that  it  was  hopeless  to  avoid? 

"  Tell  me  what  apology  I  can  make  to  Mr.  Fairlie  for 
breaking  my  engagement,"  1  said.  "  Tell  me  when  to  go 
after  that  apology  is  accepted.  1  promise  implicit  obedi- 
ence to  you  and  to  your  advice." 

"  Time  is,  every  way,  of  importance,"  she  answered. 
"  You  heard  me  refer  this  morning  to  Monday  next,  and 
to  the  necessity  of  setting  the  purple  room  in  order,  "i'he 
visitor  whom  we  expect  on  Monday — " 

1  could  not  wait  for  her  to  be  more  explicit.  Knowing 
what  I  knew  now,  the  memory  of  Miss  Fairlie's  look  and 
manner  at  the  breakfast-table  told  me  that  the  expected 
visitor  at  Limnieridge  House  was  her  future  husband.  I 
tried  to  force  it  bajck;  but  something  rose  within  me  at 
that  moment  stronger  than  my  own  will;  and  I  interrupted 
Miss  Halcombe. 

'*  Let  me  go  to-day,"  I  said,  bitterly.  "  The  sooner  the 
better." 

"  No;  not  to-day,"  she  replied.  "  The  only  reason  you 
can  assign  to  Mr.  Fairlie  for  your  departure,  before  the 
end  of  your  engagement,  must  be  that  an  unforeseen  neces- 
sity compels  you  to  ask  his  permission  to  return  at  once  to 
London.  You  mut-t  wait  till  to-morrow  to  tell  h.im  that, 
at  the  time  when  the  pnst  comes  in,  because  he  will  then 
understand  ^he  sudden  change  in  your  plans,  by  associating 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    "WHITE.  69 

it  with  the  arrival  of  a  letter  from  Loudon.  It  is  misera- 
ble and  sickening  to  descend  to  deceit,  even  of  the  most 
harmless  kind — but  I  know  Mr.  Fairlie,  and  if  you  once 
excite  his  suspicions  that  you  are  trifling  with  him,  he  wil! 
refuse  to  release  you.  Speak  to  hioi  on  Friday  morning; 
occupy  yourself  afterward  (for  the  sake  of  your  own  in- 
ierests  with  your  cmpl  lyer),  in  leaving  your  unfinished 
work  in  as  little  confusion  as  possible;  and  quit  this  place 
on  Saturday.  It  will  be  time  enough  then,  Mr.  Hartright, 
for  you,  and  for  all  of  us." 

Before  I  could  assure  her  that  she  might  depend  on  my 
acting  in  the  strictest  accordance  with  her  wishes,  we  were 
both  startled  by  advancing  footsteps  in  the  shrubbery. 
Some  one  was  coming  from  the  house  to  seek  for  us!  I  felt 
the  blood  rush  into  my  cheeks,  and  then  leave  them  again. 
Could  the  tin'rd  person  who  was  fast  approaching  us,  at 
such  a  time  and  under  such  circumstances,  be  Miss  Fair- 
lie?" 

It  was  a  relief — so  sadly,  so  hopelessly  was  my  position 
toward  her  changed  already — it  was  absolutely  a  relief  to 
me,  when  the  person  who  had  disturbed  us  appeared  at  the 
entrance  of  the  summer-house,  and  proved  to  be  only  Miss 
Fairlie's  maid. 

"  Could  1  speak  to  you  for  a  moment,  miss?"  said  the 
girl,  in  rather  a  flurried,  unsettled  manner. 

Miss  Halconibe  descended  the  steps  into  the  shrubbery, 
and  walked  aside  a  few  paces  with  the  maid. 

Left  by  myself,  my  mind  reverted,  with  a  sense  of  for- 
lorn wretchedness  which  it  is  not  in  any  words  that  1  can 
find  to  describe,  to  my  approaching  return  to  the  solitude 
and  the  despair  of  my  lonely  London  home.  Thoughts  of 
my  kind  old  mother,  and  of  my  sister,  who  had  rejoicec 
vvith  her  so  innocently  over  my  prospects  in  Cumberland — 
thoughts  whose  long  banishment  from  my  heart  it  was  now 
my  shame  and  my  reproach  to  realize  for  the  first  time — 
came  back  to  me  with  the  loving  mournfulness  of  old, 
neglected  friends.  My  motiier  and  my  sister,  what  wouKl 
they  feel  when  I  returned  to  them  from  my  broken  en- 
gagement, with  the  confession  of  my  miserable  secret — they 
who  had  parted  from  me  so  hopefully  on  that  last  happy 
night  in  the  Hampstead  cottage! 

Anne  Catherick  again!  Even  the  memory  of  the  fare- 
well evening  with  my  mother  and  my  sister  could  not  re- 


70  THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE. 

turn  to  me  now,  unconnected  with  jiiat  other  memory  of 
the  moonlight  walk  back  to  London.  What  did  it  mean? 
Were  that  woman  and  I  to  meet  once  more?  It  was  pos- 
sible, at  the  least.  Did  she  know  that  I  lived  in  London? 
Yes;  I  had  told  her  so,  either  before  or  after  that  strange 
question  of  hers,  when  she  had  asked  me  so  distrustfully  if 
I  knew  many  men  of  the  rank  of  Baronet.  Either  before 
or  after — my  mind  was  not  calm  enough,  J:hen,  to  remem- 
])er  which. 

A  few  minutes  elapsed  before  Miss  Halcombe  dismissed 
(lie  maid  and  came  back  to  me.  She,  too,  looked  flurried 
and  unsettled  now. 

"We  have  arranged  all  that  is  necessary,  Mr.  Hart- 
right,"  she  said.  "We  have  understood  each  other,  as 
friends  should;  and  we  may  go  back  at  once  to  the  house. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  uneasy  about  Laura.  She  has 
sent  to  say  she  wants  to  see  me  directly;  and  the  maid  re- 
ports that  her  mistress  is  apparently  very  much  agitated  by  a 
letter  that  she  has  received  this  morning — the  same  letter, 
no  doubt,  which  I  sent  on  to  the  house  before  we  came  here." 

We  retraced  our  steps  together  hastily  along  the  shrub- 
bery path.  Although  ]\Iiss  Halcombe  had  ended  all  that 
she  thought  it  necessary  to  say  on  her  side,  I  had  not  ended 
all  that  I  wanted  to  say  on  mine.  From  tlie  moment  when 
I  had  discovered  that  the  expected  visitor  at  Limmeridge 
was  Miss  Fairlie's  future  husband,  I  had  felt  a  bitter  curi- 
osity, a  burning  envious  eagerness,  to  know  who  he  was. 
It  was  possible  that  a  future  opportunity  of  putting  the 
question  might  not  easily  otfer ;  so  I  risked  asking  it  on  our 
way  back  to  the  house. 

"Now  that  you  are  kind  enough  to  tell  me  we  have  un- 
derstood each  other,  jMiss  Halcombe,"  I  said;  "now  that 
you  are  sure  of  my  gratitude  for  your  forbearance  and  my 
obedience  to  your  wishes,  may  I  venture  to  ask  who" — (1 
hesitated ;  I  had  forced  myself  to  think  of  him,  but  it  was 
harder  still  to  speak  of  him.  as  her  promised  husband)  — 
"who  the  gentleman  engaged  to  Miss  Fairlie  is?" 

Her  mind  was  evidently  occupied  with  the  message  she 
had  received  from  her  sister.  She  answered,  in  a  hasty, 
absent  way: 

"A  gentleman  of  large  property,  in  Hampshire." 

Hampshire  !  Anne  Catiierick's  native  place.    Again,  and 


THE  \ro:.rAX  in  white.  71 

yet  again,  the  woniai]  in  wliite.    There  was  a  fatality  in  it. 

'•'And  liis  name?"'  I  said,  as  imietly  and  indifferently  as 
I  conld. 

"Sir  Pcrcival  Glyde." 

Sii- — Sir  Percival !  Anne  Catherick's  question — that  sus- 
picious question  about  the  man  of  the  rank  of  Baronet 
\vhom  I  might  happen  to  know —  had  hardly  been  dismissed 
>from  my  mind  by  j\Iiss  Halconibe's  return  to  me  in  the 
summer-house,  before  it  wa.s  recalled  again  by  lier  own  an- 
swer.    I  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  at  her. 

"Sir  Percival  Glyde,"'  she  repeated,  imagining  that  I 
had  not  heard  her  former  reply. 

"Knight,  or  Baronet?"'  I  asked,  with  an  agitation  that 
I  could  hide  no  longer. 

She  paused  for  a  momentj  and  then  answered,  rather 
coldly : 

"Baronet,  of  course."' 


XI. 

iSToT  a  vrord  more  was  said,  on  either  side,  as  we  walked 
back  to  the  house.  i\Iiss  Halcoml)e  hastened  immediately 
to  her  sister's  room ;  and  I  withdrew  to  my  studio  to  set  in 
order  all  of  ]\[r.  Fairlie's  drawings  that  I  had  not  yet 
mounted  and  restored  before  I  resigned  them  to  the  care 
of  other  hands.  Thoughts  that  I  had  hitherto  restrained, 
thoughts  that  made  my  position  harder  than  ever  to  en- 
dure, crowded  on  me.  now  that  I  was  alone. 

She  was  engaged  to  be  married ;  and  her  future  husband 
was  Sir  Percival  Glyde.  A  num  of  the  rank  of  baronet, 
and  the  owner  of  property  in  Hampshire. 

There  were  hundreds  of  baronets  in  England,  and 
dozens  of  landowners  in  Plampshire.  Judging  by  the 
ordinary  rules  of  evidence,  I  had  not  the  shadow  of  a 
reason,  thus  far,  for  connecting  Sir  Percival  Glyde  witli, 
the  suspicious  words  of  inquiry  that  had  been  spoken  to 
me  by  the  woman  in  white.  And  yet.  I  did  connect 
him  with  them.  AVas  it  l^ecause  he  had  now  become  as- 
sociated in  my  mind  with  ilis.s  Fairlie:  jMiss  Fairlie  being, 
in  her  turn,  associated  with  Anne  Catherick,  since  the  night 
wh'^n  I  had  discovered  the  ominous  likeness  between  them  ? 
Had  the  events  of  the  morning  so  unnerved  me  alreadv 
that   1  was  at  the  mercv  oi'  anv  delusion   wliidi   common 


72  THE  wo:max  in"  white. 

cb.anccs  and  common  coincidences  might  suggest  to  my 
imagination  ?  Impossible  to  say.  I  could  only  feel  that  what 
had  passed  between  j\Iiss  Halcombc  and  myself,  on  our  way 
from  the  summer-house,  had  afTected  me  very  strangely. 
The  foreboding  of  some  undiscoverable  danger,  lying  hid 
from  us  all  in  the  darkness  of  the  future,  was  strong  on  me. 
The  doubt  whether  I  was  not  linked  already  to  a  chain  of 
events  which  even  my  approaching  departure  from  Cumber- 
land would  be  powerless  to  snap  asunder — the  doubt 
whether  we  any  of  us  saw  the  end  as  the  end  would  really 
be — gathered  more  and  more  darkly  over  my  mind.  Poig- 
nant as  it  was,  the  sense  of  suffering  caused  by  the  miser- 
able end  of  my  brief  presumptuous  love,  seemed  to  be 
blunted  and  deadened  bv  the  still  stronger  sense  of  some- 
thing obscurely  impending,  something  invisibly  threaten- 
ing, that  Time  was  holding  over  our  heads.    , 

I  had  been  engaged  with  the  drawings  little  more  than 
half  an  hour,  when  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  It 
opened,  on  my  answering;  and,  to  my  surprise.  Miss  Hal- 
combe  entered  the  room. 

Her  manner  was  angry  and  agitated.  She  caught  up  a 
chair  for  herself,  before  I  could  give  her  one ;  and  sat 
down  in  it,  close  at  my  side. 

"Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said,  "T  had  hoped  that  all  pain- 
ful subjects  of  conversation  were  exhausted  between  us, 
for  to-clay  at  least.  But  it  is  not  to  be  so.  There  is 
some  underhand  villainy  at  work  to  frighten  my  sister 
about  her  approaching  marriage.  You  saw  me  send  the 
gardener  on  to  the  house,  with  a  letter  addressed,  in  a 
Strang  handwriting,  to  Miss  Fairlie?" 

"Certainly." 

"The  letter  is  an  anonymous  letter — a  vile  attempt  to 
injure  Sir  Percival  Clyde  in  my  sister's  estimation.  It 
has  so  agitated  and  alarmed  her  that  I  have  had  the  great- 
est possibly  difficulty  in  composing  her  spirits  sufficiently 
to  allow  me  to  leave  her  room  and  come  here.  I  know 
this  is  a  family  matter  on  which  T  ought  not  to  consult 
you,  and  in  which  you  can  feel  no  concern  or  interest — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Halcombe.  I  feel  the  strong- 
est possible  concern  and  interest  in  anything  that  affect«! 
Miss  Fairlie's  happiness  or  yours." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.    You  are  the  only  pei'son 


t^WE  WOMAN  IJT   WHITE.  73 

in  the  house,  or  out  of  it,  who  can  advise  me.  Mr.  Fairlie, 
in  his  state  of  health  and  with  his  horror  of  difficulties  and 
mysteries  of  all  kinds,  is  not  to  be  tliought  of.  The  clergy- 
man is  a  good,  weak  man,  who  knows  nothing  out  of  the 
routine  of  his  duties ;  and  our  neighbors  are  just  the  sort  of 
comfortable,  jog-trot  acquaintances  whom  one  can  not  dis- 
turb in  times  of  trouble  and  danger.  WTiat  I  want  to  know 
is  this :  ought  I  at  once  to  take  such  steps  as  I  can  to  dis- 
cover the  writer  of  the  letter  ?  or  ought  i  to  wait,  and  apply 
to  Mr.  Fairlie's  legal  adviser  to-morrow  ?  It  is  a  question — 
perhaps  a  very  important  one — of  gaining  or  losing  a  day. 
Tell  me  Avhat  you  think,  Mr.  Hartright.  If  necessity  had 
not  already  obliged  me  to  take  you  into  my  confidence  under 
very  delicate  circumstances,  even  my  helpless  situation 
would,  perhaps,  be  no  excuse  for  me.  But,  as  tilings  are.  I 
can  not  surely  be  wrong,  after  all  that  has  passed  between 
us,  in  forgetting  that  you  are  a  friend  of  only  three 
months'  standing." 

She  gave  me  the  letter.  It  began  abruptly,  without  any 
preliminary  form  of  address,  as  follows: 

"Do  you  believe  in  dreams?  I  hope  for  your  own  sake, 
that  you  do.  See  what  the  Scripture  says  about  dreams  and 
their  fulfillment  (Genesis  xl.,  8..  xli.,  25;  Daniel  iv.,  18- 
25)  ;  and  take  the  warning  I  send  you  before  it  is  too  late. 

"Last  night,  I  dreamed  about  you.  Miss  Fairlie.  I 
dreamed  that  I  was  standing  inside  the  communion  rails 
of  a  church :  I  on  one  side  of  the  altar-table,  and  the  cler- 
gyman, with  his  surplice  and  his  prayer-book,  on  the  other. 

"After  a  time,  there  walked  toward  us,  down  the  aisle  of 
the  church,  a  man  and  a  woman,  coming  to  be  married.  You 
were  the  woman.  You  looked  so  pretty  and  innocent  in  your 
beautiful  wdaite  silk  dress,  and  your  long  white  lace  veil, 
that  my  heart  felt  for  you  and  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes. 

"They  were  tears  of  pity,  young  lady,  that  Heaven 
blesses;  and,  instead  of  falling  from  my  eyes  like  the 
every-day  tears  that  we  all  of  us  shed,  they  turned  into 
two  rays  of  light  which  slanted  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
man  standing  at  the  altar  with  you,  till  they  touched  his 
breast.  The  two  rays  sprung  in  arches  like  tow  rainbows, 
between  me  and  him.  I  looked  along  them;  and  I  saw 
down  into  his  inmost  heart. 


ij'4  THIJ   WOMAiSr   IN"   WHITE. 

"The  outside  of  the  man  you  were  marrying  was  fair 
enough  to  see.  He  was  neither  tall  nor  short — he  was  a 
little  below  the  middle  size.  A  light,  active,  high-spirited 
man — about  five-and-forty  3^ears  old,  to  look  at.  He  had 
a  pale  face,  and  was  bald  over  the  forehead,  but  had  dark 
hair  on  the  rest  of  his  head.  His  beard  was  shaven  on 
his  chin,  but  was  let  to  grow,  of  a  fine  rich  brown,  on  his 
cheeks  and  his  upper  lip.  His  eyes  were  brown  too,  and 
very  bright;  his  nose  straight  and  handsome,  and  delicate 
enough  to  have  done  for  a  woman's.  His  hands  the  same. 
He  was  troubled  from  time  to  time  with  a  dry  hacking 
cough;  and  when  he  put  up  his  white  right  hand  to  his 
mouth,  he  showed  the  red  scar  of  an  old  wound  across  the 
back  of  it.  Have  I  dreamed  of  the  right  man?  You 
know  best.  Miss  Fairlie ;  and  you  can  say  if  1  was  deceived 
or  not.  Read,  next,  what  I  saw  benea^^'  the  outside — I 
entreat  you,  read,  and  profit. 

"I  looked  along  the  two  rays  of  light;  and  I  saw  down 
into  his  inmost  heart.  It  was  black  as  night;  and  on  it 
were  written,  in  the  red  flaming  letters  which  are  the 
handwriting  of  the  fallen  angel :  'Without  pity  and  without 
remorse.  He  has  strewn  with  misery  the  paths  of  others, 
and  he  will  live  to  strew  with  misery  the  path  of  this  woman 
by  his  side.'  I  read  that ;  and  then  the  rays  of  light  shifted 
and  pointed  over  his  shoulder ;  and  there,  behind  him,  stood 
a  fiend,  laughing.  And  the  rays  of  light  shifted  once  more, 
•and  pointed  over  your  shoulder;  and  there,  behind  you, 
stood  an  angel  weeping.  And  the  rays  of  light  shifted  for 
the  third  time,  and  pointed  straight  between  you  and  that 
man.  They  widened  and  widened,  thrusting  you  both 
asunder,  one  from  the  other.  And  the  clergyman  looked 
for  the  marriage-service  in  vain :  it  was  gone  out  of  the 
book,  and  he  shut  up  the  leaves,  and  put  it  from  him  in 
despair.  And  I  woke  with  my  eyes  full  of  tears  and  my 
heart  beating — for  I  believe  in  dreams. 

"Believe,  too.  Miss  Fairlie — I  beg  of  you,  for  your  own 
sake,  believe  as  I  do.  Joseph  and  Daniel,  and  others  in 
Scripture,  believed  in  dreams.  Inquire  into  the  past  life 
of  that  man  with  the  scar  on  his  hand,  before  you  say  the 
words  that  make  you  his  miserable  wife.  I  don't  give  you 
this  warning  on  my  account,  but  on  yours.  I  have  an 
interest  in  your  well-being  that  will  live  as  long  as  t  4raw 


¥HE   woman-  in    WHi.  y3 

breath.  Your  mother's  daughter  has  a  tender  place  in  my 
heart — for  your  mother  was  my  first,  my  best,  my  only 
friend." 

There,  the  extraordinary  letter  ended,  without  signature 
of  any  sort. 

The  handwriting  afforded  no  prospect  of  a  clew.  It 
was  traced  on  ruled  lines,  in  the  cramped,  conventional, 
copy-book  character,  technically  termed  "small  hand."  It 
was  feeble  and  faint,  and  defaced  by  blots,  but  had  other- 
wise nothing  to  distinguish  it. 

"That  is  not  an  illiterate  letter,"  said  Miss  Halcombe, 
"and.  at  the  same  time,  it  is  surely  too  incoherent  to  be 
the  letter  of  an  educated  person  in  the  higher  ranks  of  life. 
The  reference  to  the  bridal  dress  and  veil,  and  other  little 
expenses,  seem  to  point  to  it  as  the  production  of  some 
woman.    What  do  you  think,  Mr.  Hartright?" 

"I  think  so  too.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  not  only  the  let- 
ter of  a  woman,  but  of  a  woman  whose  mind  must  be — '* 

"Deranged?"  suggested  Miss  Halcombe.  "It  struck  me 
in  that  light,  too."  .-^ 

I  did  not  answer.  While  I  was  speaking,  my  eyes  rested 
on  the  last  sentence  of  the  letter:  "Your  mother's  daugh- 
ter has  a  tender  place  in  my  heart — for  your  mother  was 
my  first,  my  best,  my  only  friend."  Those  words  and 
thedoubt  which  had  Just  escaped  me  as  to  the  sanity  of 
the  writer  of  the  letter,  acting  together  on  my  mind,  sug- 
gested an  idea,  which  I  was  literally  afraid  to  express 
openly,  or  even  to  encourage  secretly.  I  began  to  doubt 
whether  my  own  faculties  were  not  in  danger  of  losing  their 
balance.  It  seemed  almost  like  a  monomania  to  be  trac- 
ing back  everything  strange  that  happened,  everything 
unexpected  that  was  said,  always  to  the  same  hidden  source 
and  the  same  sinister  influence.  I  resolved,  this  time,  in 
defense  of  my  own  courage  and  my  own  sense,  to  come  to 
no  decision  that  plain  fact  did  not  warrant,  and  to  turn 
my  back  resolutely  on  iiyerything  that  tempted  me  in  the 
shape  of  surmise.  ^  ' 

"If  we  have  any  chance  of  tracing  the  person  who  has 
written  this."  I  said,  returning  the  letter  to  Miss  Hal- 
combe, "there  can  be  no  harm  in  seizing  our  opportunity 
the  moment  it  offers.     I  think  we  ought  to  speak  to  the 


76  THE   -WOMAN   IN"   WHITE. 

gardener  again  about  the  elderl}''  woman  who  gave  him, 
the  letter,  and  then  to  continue  our  inquiries  in  the  village. 
But  first  let  me  ask  a  question.  You  mentioned  just  now 
the  alternative  of  consulting  Mr.  Fairlie's  legal  adviser  to- 
morrow. Is  there  no  possibility  of  communicating  with 
him  earlier?   ^YhJ  not  to-day?" 

"I  can  only  explain,"  replied  Miss  Halcombe,  "by  en- 
tering into  certain  particulars,  connected  with  my  sisters 
marriage  engagement,  which  I  did  not  think  it  necessary 
or  desirable  to  mention  to  you  this  morning.  One  of  S'? 
Percival  Glyde's  objects  in  coming  here,  on  Monday,  is  to 
the  period  of  his  marriage,  which  has  hitherto  been  left 
quite  unsettled.  He  is  anxious  that  the  event  should  take 
place  before  the  end  of  the  year." 

"Does  Miss  Fairlie  know  of  that  wish  ?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

"She  has  no  suspicion  of  it;  and,  after  what  has  hap- 
pened, I  shall  not  ake  the  responsibility  upon  myself  o-*^ 
enlightening  her.  Sir  Percival  has  only  mentioned  his 
views  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  who  has  told  me  himself  that  he  is 
ready  and  anxious,  as  Laura's  guardian,  to  forward  them. 
He  has  written  to  London,  to  the  family  solicitor,  Mr.  Gil- 
more.  Mr.  Gilmore  happens  to  be  away  in  Glasgow  on 
business;  and  he  has  replied  by  proposing  to  stop  at  Lim- 
meridge  House,  on  his  way  back  to  town.  He  will  arrive 
tn-morrow,  and  will  stay  with  us  a  few  days,  so  as  to  allow 
Sir  Percival  to  plead  his  own  cause.  If  he  succeeds,  Mr. 
Gilmore  will  then  return  to  London,  taking  with  him  his 
instructions  for  my  sister's  marriage-settlement.  You  un- 
derstand now,  ]\Ir.  Hartright,  why  I  speak  of  waiting  to 
take  legal  advice  until  to-morrow?  Mr.  Gilmore  is  the  old 
and  tried  friend  of  two  generations  of  Fairlies;  and  we 
can  trust  him,  as  we  could  trust  no  one  else." 

The  marriage-settlement !  The  mere  hearing  of  those  two 
words  stung  me  with  a  jealous  despair  that  was  poison  to 
mv  higher  and  better  instincts.  I  began  to  think — it  is  hard 
to  confess  this,  but  I  must  suppress  nothing  from  begin- 
ning to  end  of  the  terrible  story  that  I  now  stand  com- 
mitted to  reveal — 1  began  to  think,  with  a  hateful  eagerness 
of  hope,  of  the  vague  charges  against  Sir  Percival  Glyde 
which  the  anonymous  letter  contained.  What  if  those  wild 
accusations  rested  on  a  foundation  of  truth  ?  What  if  their 


THE   WOMAN   IN   AVHITE.  77 

truth  could  be  proved  before  tbe  fatal  words  of  consent 
were  spoken,  and  the  marriage-settlement  was  drawn?  I 
have  tried  to  think,  since,  that  the  feelin<;  which  tlien  ani- 
mated me  began  and  ended  in  pure  devotion  to  Miss  Fair- 
lie's  interests.  But  I  have  never  succeeded  in  deceiving 
myself  into  believing  it ;  and  I  must  not  now  attempt  to 
deceive  others.  The  feeling  began  and  ended  in  reckless,  vin- 
dictive, hopeless  hatred  of  the  man  who  was  to  marry  her. 

"If  we  are  to  find  out  anything,"  I  said,  speaking  under 
the  new  influence  which  was  now  directing  me,  "we  had 
better  not  let  another  minute  slip  by  us  unemployed.  I 
can  only  suggest,  once  more,  the  propriety  of  questioning 
the  gardener  the  second  time,  and  of  inquiring  in  the  vil- 
lage immediately  afterward." 

"I  think  I  may  be  of  help  to  you  in  both  cases,"  said 
Miss  Halcombe,  rising.  "Let  us  go,  Mr.  Hartright,  at 
once,  and  do  the  best  we  can  together." 

I  had  the  door  in  my  hand  to  open  it  for  her — but  I 
stopped,  on  a  sudden,  to  ask  an  important  question  before 
we  set  forth. 

"One  of  the  paragraphs  of  the  anonymous  letter,"  I 
said,  "contains  some  sentences  of  minute  personal  descrip- 
tion. Sir  Percival  Clyde's  name  is  not  mentioned,  I  know 
— but  does  that  description  at  all  resemble  him  ?" 

"Accurately;  even  in  stating  his  age  to  be  forty-five — " 

Forty-five ;  and  she  was  not  twenty-one !  Men  of  his  age 
married  wives  of  her  age  every  day:  and  experience  had 
shown  those  marriages  to  be  often  the  happiest  ones.  I 
knew  that — and  yet  even  the  mention  of  his  age,  when  I 
contrasted  it  with  hers,  added  to  my  blind  hatred  and  dis- 
trust of  him. 

"Accurately,"  Miss  Halcombe  continued,  "even  to  the  scar 
on  his  right  hand,  which  is  the  scar  of  a  wound  that  he  re- 
ceived years  since  when  he  was  traveling  in  Italy.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  every  peculiarity  of  his  personal  ap- 
pearance is  thoroughly  well  known  to  the  writer  of  the 
lette." 

"Even  a  cough  that  he  is  troubled  with  is  mentioned,  if 
I  remember  right?" 

"Yes,  and  mentioned  correctly.  He  treats  it  lightly 
himself,  though  it  sometimes  makes  his  friends  anxious 
about  him." 


78  THE   WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"I  suppose  no  whispers  have  ever  been  heard  against  his 
character  ?" 

"Mr.  Hartright !  I  hope  you  are  not  unjust  enough  to 
let  that  infamous  letter  influence  you  ?" 

I  felt  the  blood  rush  into  my  cheeks,  for  I  knew  that  it 
had  influenced  me. 

"I  hope  not,"  I  answered,  confusedly.  "Perhaps  I  had 
no  right  to  ask  the  question." 

"I  am  not  sorry  you  asked  it."  she  said,  "for  it  enables 
me  to  do  justice  to  Sir  Percival's  reputation.  Not  a  whis- 
per, Mr.  Hartright,  has  ever  reached  me.  or  my  family, 
against  him.  He  has  fought  successfully  two  contested 
elections,  and  has  come  out  of  the  ordeal  unscathed.  A 
man  who  can  do  that,  in  England,  is  a  man  whose  charac- 
ter is  established." 

I  opened  the  door  for  her  in  silence,  and  followed  her 
out.  She  had  not  convinced  me.  If  the  recording  angel 
had  come  down  from  heaven  to  confirm  her,  and  had 
opened  his  book  to  my  mortal  eyes,  the  recording  angel 
would  not  have  convinced  me. 

We  found  the  gardener  at  work  as  usual.  ISTo  amount 
of  questioning  could  extract  a  single  answer  of  any  import- 
ance from  the  lad's  impenetrable  stupidity.  The  woman 
who  had  given  him  the  letter  was  an  elderly  woman;  she^ 
had  not  spoken  a  word  to  him ;  and  she  had  gone  away 
toward  the  south  in  a  great  hurry.  That  was  all  the  gar- 
dener could  tell  us. 

The  village  lay  southward  of  the  house.  So  to  the  village 
we  went  next. 


XII. 


Oim  inquiries  at  Limmeridge  were  patiently  pursued  in 
all  directions,  and  among  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  peo- 
ple. But  nothing  came  of  them.  Three  of  the  villagers 
did  certainly  assure  us  that  they  had  seen  the  woman; 
but  as  they  were  quite  unable  to  describe  her,  and  quite 
incapable  of  agreeing  about  the  exact  direction  in  which 
she  was  proceeding  when  they  last  saw  her,  these  three 
bright  exceptions  to  the  general  rule  of  total  ignorance 


THE   WOMAN"   IN"   WHITE.  79 

afforded  no  more  real  assistance  to  us  than  the  mass  of 
their  unhelpful  and  unobservant  neighbors. 

The  course  of  our  useless  investigations  brought  us,  in 
time,  to  the  end  of  the  village  at  which  the  schools  estab- 
lished by  Mrs.  Fairlie  were  situated.  As  we  passed  the 
•side  of  the  building  appropriated  to  the  use  of  the  boys,  I 
suggested  the  propriety  of  making  a  last  inquiry  of  the 
school-master,  whom  we  might  presume  to  be,  in  virtue  of 
his  office,  the  most  intelligent  man  in  the  place. 

"I  am  afraid  the  school-master  must  have  been  occupied 
with  his  scholars,"  said  Miss  Haleombe,  "just  at  the  time 
when  the  woman  passed  through  the  village,  and  returned 
again.     However,  we  can  but  try." 

.We  entered  the  play-ground  inclosure,  and  walked  by  the 
school-room  window,  to  get  round  to  the  door,  which  was 
situated  at  the  back  of  the  building.  I  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  window  and  looked  in. 

The  school-master  was  sitting  at  his  high  desk,  with  his 
back  to  me,  apparently  harranguing  the  pupils,  who  were 
all  gathered  together  in  front  of  him,  with  one  exception. 
The  one  exception  was  a  sturdy  white-headed  boy,  stand- 
ing apart  from  all  the  rest  on  a  stool  in  a  corner — a  forlorn 
little  Crusoe,  isolated  in  his  own  desert  island  of  solitary 
penal  disgrace. 

The  door,  when  we  got  round  to  it,  was  ajar;  and  the 
school-master's  voice  reached  us  plainly,  as  we  both  stopped 
for  a  minute  under  the  porch. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  the  voice,  "mind  what  I  tell  you.  If 
I  hear  another  word  spoken  about  ghosts  in  this  school,  it 
will  be  the  worst  for  all  of  you.  There  are  no  such  things 
as  ghosts;  and,  therefore,  any  boy  who  believes  in  ghosts 
believes  in  what  can't  possibly  be;  and  a  boy  who  belongs 
to  Limmeridge  School,  and  believes  in  what  can't  possibly 
be,  sets  up  his  back  against  reason  and  discipline,  and 
must  be  punished  accordingly.  You  all  see  Jacob  Postle- 
thwaite  standing  up  on  the  stool  there  in  disgrace.  He  has 
been  punished,  not  because  he  said  he  saw  a  ghost  last 
night,  but  because  he  is  too  impudent  and  too  obstinate  to 
listen  to  reason ;  and  because  he  persists  in  saying  he  saw  the 
ghost  after  I  have  told  him  that  no  such  thing  can  pos-ibly 
be.  If  nothing  else  will  do,  I  mean  to  cane  the  ghost  out 
of  Jacob  Postlethwaite ;  and  if  the  thing  spreads  amon^ 


80  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

any  of  the  rest  of  you,  I  mean  to  go  a  step  further,  and 
cane  the  ghost  out  of  the  whole  school," 

"We  seem  to  have  chosen  an  awkward  moment  for  our 
visit,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  pushing  open  the  door,  at  the 
end  of  the  school-master's  address,  and  leading  the  way  in. 

Our  appearance  produced  a  strong  sensation  among  the 
boys.  They  appeared  to  think  that  we  had  arrived  for  the 
express  purpose  of  seeing  Jacob  Postlethwaite  caned. 

"Go  home  all  of  you  to  dinner,"  said  the  school-master, 
"except  Jacob.  Jacob  must  stop  where  he  is;  and  the 
ghost  may  bring  him  his  dinner,  if  the  ghost  pleases," 

Jacob's  fortitude  deserted  him  at  the  double  appearance 
of  his  school-fellows  and  his  prospect  of  dinner.  He  took 
his  hands  out  of  his  pockets,  looked  hard  at  his  knuckles, 
raised  them  with  great  deliberation  to  his  eyes,  and,  when 
they  got  there,  ground  them  round  and  round  slowly,  ac- 
companying their  action  by  short  spasms  of  sniffing,  which 
followed  each  other  at  regular  intervals — the  nasal  minute- 
guns  of  juvenile  distress, 

"We  came  here  to  ask  you  a  question,  ]\Ir,  Dempster,'^ 
said  Miss  Halcombe.  addressing  the  school-master;  "and 
we  little  expected  to  find  you  occupied  in  exorcising  a 
ghost.  What  does  it  all  mean?  What  has  really  hap- 
pened ?" 

"That  wicked  boy  has  been  frightening  the  whole  school, 
Miss  Halcombe,  by  declaring  that  he  saw  a  ghost  yesterday 
evening,"  answered  the  master.  "And  he  still  persists  in 
his  absurd  story,  in  spite  of  all  that  I  can  say  to  him." 

"Most  extraordinary,"  said  IMiss  Halcombe.  "I  should 
not  have  thought  it  possible  that  any  of  the  boys  had  im- 
agination enough  to  see  a  ghost.  This  a  new  accession 
indeed  to  the  hard  labor  of  forming  the  youthful  mind  at 
Limmeridge — and  I  heartily  wish  you  well  through  it,  Mr. 
Dempster,  In  the  meantime,  let  me  explain  why  you  see 
me  here,  and  what  it  is  I  want," 

She  then  put  the  same  question  to  the  school-master 
which  we  had  already  asked  of  almost  every  one  else  in 
the  village.  It  was  met  by  the  same  discouraging  answer. 
Air.  Dempster  had  not  set  eyes  on  the  stranger  of  whom  we 
were  in  search. 

"We  may  as  well  return  to  the  house,  Mr.  Hartright," 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  81 

said   ]\Iiss   ITalcomljc;   "the  information  we   want  is  evi- 
dently not  to  be  found." 

She  had  bowed  to  Mr.  Dempster,  and  was  about  to  leave 
the  school-room,  when  the  forlorn  position  of  Jacob  Pos- 
tlethwaite,  piteously  snifiing  on  the  stool  of  penitence,  at- 
tracted her  attention  as  she  passed  him,  and  made  her  stop 
good-humoredly  to  speak  a  word  to  the  little  prisoner  be- 
fore she  opened  the  door. 

"You  foolish  boy,"  she  said,  "why  don't  you  beg  Mr. 
Dempsters  pardon,  and  hold  your  tongue  about  the 
ghost  ?" 

"Eh ! — but  I  saw  t'  ghaist."  persisted  Jacob  Postle- 
thwaite,  with  a  stare  of  terror  and  a  burst  of  tears. 

"Stuff  and  nonsense !  You  saw  nothing  of  the  kind. 
Ghost  indeed  !    What  ghost — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Halcombe,"  interposed  the 
school-master,  a  little  uneasil}^ — "but  I  think  you  had 
better  not  question  the  bo}^  The  obstinate  folly  of  his 
story  is  beyond  all  belief;  and  you  might  lead  him  into 
ignorantl}' — " 

"Ignorantly,  what?"  inquired  Miss  Halcombe,  sharply. 

"Ignorantly  shocking  your  feelings,"  said  Mr.  Demp- 
ster, looking  very  much  discomposed. 

"Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Dempster,  you  pay  my  feelings  a 
great  compliment  in  thinking  them  weak  enough  to  be 
shocked  by  such  an  urchin  as  that !"  She  turned  with  an 
air  of  satirical  defiance  to  little  Jacob,  and  began  to  ques- 
tion him  directly.  "Come!"  she  said;  "I  mean  to  know 
all  about  this.  You  naughty  boy,  when  did  you  see  the 
ghost?" 

"Yester'een,  at  the  gloaming,"  replied  Jacob. 

"Oh !  you  saw  it  yesterday  evening,  in  the  twilight  ? 
And  what  was  it  like  ?" 

"Arl  in  white — as  a  ghaist  should  be."  answered  the 
ghost-seer,  with  a  confidence  beyond  his  years. 

"And  where  was  it?" 

"Away  3rander,  in  t'  kirk-yard — where  a  ghaist  ought  to 
be." 

"As  a  'ghaist'  should  be — where  a  'ghaist'  ought  to 
be — why  you  little  fool,  you  talk  as  if  the  manners  and 
customs  of  ghosts  had  been  familiar  to  you  from  your  in- 
fancy !    You  have  got  your  story  at  your  fingers'  ends,  at 


82  THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

any  rate.     1  suppose  I  shall  hear  next  that  you  can  actu 
ally  tell  rae  whose  ghost  it  was?" 

"  Eh!  but  I  just  cau/'  replied  Jacob,  nodding  his  head 
with  ail  air  of  gloomy  triumph. 

Mr.  Dempster  had  already  tried  several  times  to  speaif, 
while  Miss  Halcombe  was  examing  his  pupil;  and  he  now 
interposed  resolutely  enough  to  make  himself  heard. 
\  *'  Excuse  me,  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said,  "  if  1  venture 
to  say  that  you  are  only  encouraging  the  boy  by  asking  him 
these  questions." 

"  1  will  merely  ask  one  more,  Mr.  Dempster,  and  then  I 
shall  be  quite  satisfied.  Well,"  she  continued,  turning  to 
the  boy,  "  and   whose  ghost  was  it?" 

"  T'  ghaist  of  Mistress  Fairlie,"  answered  Jacob,  in  a 
wiiisper. 

The  effect  which  this  extraordinary  reply  produced  on 
Miss  Halcombe  fully  justified  the  anxiety  which  the  school- 
master had  shown  to  prevent  her  from  hearing  it.  Her 
face  crimsoned  with  indignation — she  turned  upon  little 
Jacob  with  an  angry  suddenness  which  terrified  him  into  a 
fresh  burst  of  tears — opened  her  lips  to  speak  to  him — then 
controlled  herself — and  addressed  the  master  instead  of 
the  boy. 

"  It  is  useless,"  she  said,  "  to  hold  such  a  child  as  that 
responsible  for  what  he  says.  1  have  little  doubt  that 
the  idea  has  been  put  into  his  head  by  others.  If  there  are 
people  in  this  village,  Mr.  Dempster,  who  have  forgotten 
the  respect  and  gratitude  due  from  every  soul  in  it  to  my 
mother's  memor}',  I  will  find  them  out;  and,  if  I  have  any 
influence  with  Mr.  Fairlie,  they  shall  suffer  for  it." 

"  I  hope — indeed,  I  am  sure,  Miss  Halcombe — that  you 
are  mistaken,"  said  the  school-master.  "  The  matter 
begins  and  ends  with  the  boy's  own  perversity  and  folly. 
He  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  a  woman  in  white,  yesterday 
evening,  as  he  was  passing  the  church-yard;  and  the  figure, 
real  or  fancied,  was  standing  by  the  marble  cross,  which 
he  and  every  otie  else  in  Limmeridge  knows  to  be  the  mon- 
ument over  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave.  These  two  circumstances 
are  surely  sufficient  to  have  suggested  to  the  boy  himself 
the  answer  which  has  so  naturally  shocked  you?" 

Although  Miss  Halcombe  did  not  seem  to  be  convinced, 
she  evidently  felt  that  the  school-master's  statement  of  the 
case  was  too  sensible  to  be  openly  combated.     She  merely 


THE    WOMAK    in    white.  83 

replied  by  thanking  liim  for  his  attention,  and  by  promis- 
ing to  see  him  again  when  her  doubts  were  satisfied.  This 
said,  she  bowed,  and  led  the  way  out  of  the  school-room. 

Throughout  tiie  whole  of  this  strange  scene,  1  had  stood 
apart,  listening  attentively,  and  drawing  my  own  conclu- 
sions. As  soon  as  we  were  alone  again.  Miss  Halcombe 
asked  me  if  1  had  formed  any  opinion  on  what  I  had 
heard. 

"  A  very  strong  opinion,"  I  answered;  "  the  boy's  story, 
as  I  believe,  has  a  foundation  in  fact.  1  confess  I  am  anx- 
ious to  see  the  monument  over  Mrs.  Fairlie's  jrave,  and 
to  examine  the  ground  about  it." 

"  You  shall  see  the  grave." 

yhe  paused  after  making  that  reply,  and  reflected  a  little 
as  we  walked  on.  "  What  has  happened  in  the  school- 
room," she  resumed,  "  has  so  completely  distracted  my  at- 
tention from  the  subject  of  the  letter,  that  I  feel  a  little 
bewildered  when  I  try  to  return  to  it.  Must  we  give  up 
all  idea  of  making  any  further  inquiries,  and  wait  to  place 
the  thing  in  Mr.  Gilmore's  hands  to-morrow.''" 

"  By  no  means,  Miss  Halcombe.  What  has  happened 
in  the  school -room  encourages  me  to  persevere  in  the  inves- 
tigation. " 

"  Why  does  it  encourage  you?" 

"  Because  it  strengthens  a  suspicion  1  felt  when  you  gave 
me  the  letter  to  read." 

"  I  suppose  you  had  your  reasons,  Mr.  Hartright,  for 
concealing  that  suspicion  from  me  till  this  monienL^" 

"  I  was  afraid  to  encourage  it  in  myself.  I  thought  it 
was  utterly  preposterous — I  distrusted  it  as  the  result  of 
some  perversity  in  my  own  imagination.  But  1  can  do  so 
no  longer.  Not  only  the  boy's  own  answers  to  your  ques- 
tions, but  even  a  chance  expression  that  dropped  from  the 
school-master's  lips  in  explaining  his  story,  have  forced  the 
idea  back  into  my  mind.  Events  may  yet  prove  that  idea 
to  be  a  delusion.  Miss  Halcombe;  but  the  belief  is  strong 
in  me,  at  this  moment,  that  the  fancied  ghost  in  the 
church-yard  and  the  writer  of  the  anonymous  letter  are  one 
and  the  same  person. " 

She  stopped,  turned  pale,  and  looked  me  eagerly  in  the 

"What  person?" 

*'  The  school-master  uaconsciously  told  you.     When  he 


84  THE    WOMAN    m    WHI'M 

spoke  of  the  figure  he  saw  in  the  church-yard,  he  called  it 
'  a  woman  in  white. '  " 

"  Not  Anne  Catherick!" 

"  Yes,  Anne  Oatheriok. " 

She  put  her  hand  through  my  arm,  and  leaned  on  it 
heavily. 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  she  said  in  ]ow  tones,  "  but  there 
is  something  in  this  suspicion  of  yours  that  seems  to  startle 
and  unnerve  me.  I  feel — "  She  stopped,  and  tried  to 
laugh  it  off.  "  Mr.  Ilartriglit,"  she  went  on,  "  1  will 
show  you  jhe  grave,  and  then  go  back  at  once  to  the  house. 
I  had  better  not  leave  Laura  too  long  alone.  I  had  better 
go  back,  and  sit  with  her." 

We  were  close  to  the  church-yard  when  she  spoke.  The 
church,  a  dreary  building  of  gray  stone,  was  situated  in  a 
little  valley,  so  as  to  be  sheltered  from  the  bleak  winds 
blowing  over  the  moor-land  all  round  it.  The  burial- 
ground,  advanced  from  the  side  of  the  church,  a  little  way 
up  the  slope  of  the  hill.  It  was  surrounded  by  a  rough, 
low  stone  wall,  and  was  bare  and  open  to  the  sky,  except 
at  one  extremity,  where  a  brook  trickled  down  the  stony 
hill-side,  and  a  clump  of  dwarf  trees  threw  their  narrow 
shadows  over  the  short,  meager  grass.  Just  beyond  the 
brook  and  the  trees,  and  not  far  from  one  of  the  three 
stone  stiles  which  afforded  entrance,  at  various  points,  to 
the  church-yard,  rose  the  white  marble  cross  that  distin- 
guished Mrs.  Fairlie's  grav^from  the  humbler  monuments 
scrt(.tered  about  it. 

"  I  need  go  no  further  with  you,'*  said  Miss  Halcombe, 
pointing  to  the  grave,  "  You  will  let  me  know  if  you  find 
anything  to  confirm  the  idea  you  have  just  mentioned  to 
me.     Let  us  meet  again  at  the  house." 

She  left  me.  I  descended  at  once  to  the  church-yard, 
and  crossed  the  stile  which  led  directly  to  Mrs.  Fairlie's 
grave. 

The  grass  about  it  was  too  short,  and  the  ground  k)0 
hard,  to  show  any  marks  of  footsteps.  Disappointed  thus 
far,  I  next  looked  attentively  at  the  cross,  and  at  the 
square  block  of  luarblo  below  it,  on  which  the  inscription 
was  cut. 

The  natural  whiteness  of  the  cross  was  a  little  clouded, 
here  and  tiiero,  by  weather-stain?;  and  rather  more  than 
one  half  of  the  square  block  beneath  it,  ou  the  side  which 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE,  85 

bore  the  inscription,  'vas  in  the  same  condition.  The 
otlier  half,  however,  attracted  my  attention  ab  once  by  its 
singular  freedom  from  stain  or  impurity  of  any  kind.  I 
looked  closer,  and  saw  that  it  had  been  cleaned,  recently 
cleaned,  in  a  downward  direction  from  top  to  bottom. 
The  boundary  line  between  the  part  that  had  been  cleaned 
and  the  part  that  had  not,  was  traceable  wlierever  the  in- 
scription left  a  blank  space  of  marble — sharply  traceable  af 
a  line  that  had  been  produced  by  artificial  means.  Who 
had  begun  the  cleansing  of  the  marble,  and  who  had  left 
it  unfinished? 

1  looked  about  me,  wondering  how  the  question  was  to 
be  solved.  No  sign  of  a  habitation  could  be  discerned 
from  the  point  at  which  1  was  standing:  the  burial-ground 
was  left  in  the  lonely  possession  of  the  dead.  I  returned 
to  the  church,  and  walked  round  it  till  1  came  to  the  back 
of  the  building;  then  crossed  the  boundary  wall  beyond, 
by  another  of  the  stone  stiles,  and  found  myself  at  the 
head  of  a  path  leading  down  into  a  deserted  stone  quarry. 
Against  one  side  of  the  quarry  a  little  two-room  cottage 
was  built;  and  just  outside  the  door  an  old  woman  was 
engaged  in  washing. 

1  walked  up  to  her,  and  entered  into  conversation  about 
the  church  and  burial-ground.  She  was  ready  enough  to 
talk;  and  almost  the  first  words  she  said  informed  nie  that 
her  husband  filled  the  two  offices  of  clerk  and  sexton.  1 
said  a  few  words  next  in  praise  of  Mrs.  Fairlie's  monu- 
ment. The  old  woman  shook  her  head,  and  told  me  that 
I  had  not  seen  it  at  its  best.  It  was  her  husband's  business 
to  look  after  it,  but  he  had  been  so  ailing  and  weak,  for 
months  and  months  past,  that  he  had  hardly  been  able  to 
crawl  into  church  on  Sundays  to  do  his  duty;  and  the 
monument  had  been  neglected  in  consequence.  He  was 
getting  a  little  better  now,  and,  in  a  week  or  ten  days' 
time,  he  hoped  to  be  strong  enough  to  set  to  work  and 
clean  it. 

This  information — extracted  from  a  long  rambling  an- 
swer, in  the  broadest  Cumberland  dialect — told  me  ail 
tliiit  1  most  wanted  to  know.  I  gave  the  poor  woman  a 
trille,  and  returned  at  once  to  Limmeridge  House. 

The  partial  cleansing  of  the  monument  had  evidently 
been  accomplished  by  a  strange  hand.  Connecting  what  I 
had  discovered,  thus  far,  with,  what  1  had  suspected  after 


8G  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

hearing  the  story  of  the  ghost  seen  at  twilight,  1  wanted 
nothing  more  to  confirm  my  resolution  to  watch  Mrs. 
Fairlies  grave,  in  secret,  that  evening;  returning  to  it 
at  sunset,  and  waiting  within  sight  of  it  till  the  night  fell. 
The  work  of  cleansing  the  monument  had  been  left  unfin- 
ished; and  the  person  by  whom  it  had  been  begun  might 
return  and  complete  it. 

On  getting  back  to  the  house,  1  informed  MissHalcombe 
of  what  1  intended  to  do.  8he  looked  surprised  and  un- 
easy, while  I  was  explaining  my  purpose;  but  she  made  no 
positive  objection  to  the  execution  of  it.  8he  only&aid,  "  1 
hope  it  may  end  well."  Just  as  she  was  leaving  me  again, 
I  stopped  her  to  inquire,  as  calmly  as  I  could,  after  Miss 
Fairlie's  health.  She  was  in  better  spirits;  and  Miss  Hal- 
combe  hoped  she  might  be  induced  to  take  a  little  walking 
exercise  while  the  afternoon  sun  lasted. 

1  returned  to  my  own  room,  to  resume  setting  the  draw- 
ings in  order.  It  was  necessary  to  do  this,  and  doubly 
necessary  to  keep  my  mind  employed  on  anything  that 
would  help  to  distract  my  attention  from  myself,  and  from 
the  hopeless  future  that  lay  before  me.  From  time  to 
time,  1  paused  in  my  work  to  look  out  of  the  window  and 
watch  the  sky  as  the  sun  sunk  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
horizon.  On  one  of  those  occasions  I  saw  a  figure  on  the 
broad  gravel-walk  under  my  window.    It  was  Miss  Fairlie. 

I  had  not  seen  her  since  the  morning;  and  i  had  hardly 
spoken  to  her  then.  Another  day  at  Limnieridge  was  all 
that  remained  to  me;  and  after  that  day  my  eyes  might 
never  look  on  her  again.  This  thought  was  enough  to  hold 
me  at  the  window.  1  had  sufficient  consideration  for  her, 
to  arrange  the  blind  so  that  she  might  not  see  me  if  she 
looked  up;  but  I  had  no  strength  to  resist  the  temptation 
of  letting  my  eyes,  at  least,  follow  her  as  far  as  they  coidd 
on  her  walk. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  brown  cloak,  with  a  plnin  black  silk 
gown  under  it.  On  her  head  was  the  same  s-iniple  straw 
hat  which  she  had  worn  on  the  morning  when  we  first 
met.  A  veil  was  attached  to  it  now,  which  hid  her  face 
from  me.  By  her  side  trotted  a  little  Italian  greyhound, 
the  pet  companion  of  all  her  walks,  smartly  dressed  in  a 
scarlet  cloth  wrapper,  to  keep  the  sharp  air  from  his 
delicate  skin.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  dog.  She 
walked  straight  forward,  with  her  head  drooping  a  little. 


THE    WOMAK    IN    WHITE.  87 

and  her  arms  folded  in  her  cloak.  The  dead  leaves  which 
had  whirled  in  the  wind  before  me,  when  I  had  heard  of 
her  marriage  engagement  in  the  morning,  whirled  in  the 
wind  before  her,  and  rose  and  fell  and  scattered  them- 
selves at  her  feet,  as  she  walked  on  in  the  pale  waning 
sunlight.  The  dog  shivered  and  trembled,  and  pressed 
against  her  dress  impatiently  for  notice  and  encouragement. 

But  she  never  heeded  him.  She  walked  on,  further  and 
further  away  from  me,  with  the  dead  leaves  whirling 
about  her  on  the  path — walked  on  till  my  aching  eyes 
could  see  her  no  more,  and  I  was  left  alone  again  with  my 
own  heavy  heart. 

In  another  hour's  time  I  had  done  my  work,  and  the 
sunset  was  at  hand.  I  got  my  hat  and  coat  in  the  hall,  and 
slipped  out  of  the  house  without  meeting  any  one. 

The  clouds  were  wild  in  the  western  heaven,  and  the  wind 
blew  chill  from  the  sea.  Far  as  the  shore  was,  the  sound 
of  the  surf  swept  over  the  intervening  moor-land,  and  beat 
drearily  in  my  ears,  when  I  entered  the  church-yard.  Not 
a  living  creature  was  in  sight.  The  place  looked  lonelier 
than  ever,  as  I  chose  my  position,  and  waited  and  watched, 
with  my  eyes  on  the  white  cross  that  rose  over  Mrs.  Fair- 
lie's  grave. 


XIII. 


The  exposed  situation  of  the  church-yard  had  obliged 
me  to  be  cautious  in  choosing  the  position  that  1  was  to 
occupy. 

The  main  entrance  to  the  church  was  on  the  side  next  to 
the  burial-ground;  and  the  door  was  screened  by  a  porch 
walled  in  on  either  side.  After  some  little  hesitation, 
caused  by  natural  reluctance  to  conceal  myself,  indispensa- 
ble as  that  concealment  was  to  the  object  in  view,  I  had 
resolved  on  entering  the  porch.  A  loop-hole  window  was 
pierced  in  each  of  its  side  walls.  Through  one  of  these 
windows  1  could  see  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave.  The  other  looked 
toward  the  stone  quarry  in  which  the  sexton's  cottage  was 
built.  Before  me,  fronting  the  porch  entrance,  was  a 
patch  of  bare  burial-ground,  a  line  of  low  stone  wall,  and  a 
strip  of  lonely  brown  hill,  with  the  sunset  clouds  sailing 
heavily  over  it  before  the  strong,  steady  wind.  No  living 
creature  was  visible  or  audible — no  bird  flew  by  me;  no  dog 


88  THT5    WOMAK    m    WHITB. 

barked  from  the  sexton's  cottage.  The  pauses  in  the  dull 
beating  of  the  surf  were  filled  up  by  the  dreary  rustling 
of  the  dwarf  trees  near  the  grave,  and  the  cold  faint 
bubble  of  the  brook  over  its  stony  bed.  A  droary  scene 
and  a  dreary  hour.  My  spirits  sunk  fast  as  I  counted  out 
the  minutes  of  the  evening  in  my  hiding-place  under  the 
church  porch. 

It  was  not  twilight  yet— the  light  of  the  setting  sun  still 
lingered  in  the  heavens,  and  little  more  than  the  first  half 
hour  of  my  solitary  watch  had  elapsed—  when  I  heard  foot- 
steps and  a  voice.  The  footsteps  were  approaching  from 
the  other  side  of  the  church;  and  the  voice  was  a  woman's. 

"  Don't  you  fret,  my  dear,  about  the  letter,"  said  the 
voice.  "  I  gave  it  to  the  lad  quite  safe,  and  the  lad  took 
it  from  me  without  a  word.  He  went  his  way  and  I  went 
mine;  and  not  a  living  soul  followed  me,  afterward — that 
I'll  warrant." 

These  words  strung  up  my  attention  to  a  pitch  of  expec- 
tation that  was  almost  painful.  There  was  a  pause  of 
silence,  but  the  footsteps  still  advanced.  In  another  mo- 
ment, two  persons,  both  women,  passed  within  my  range 
of  view  from  the  porch  window.  They  were  walking 
straight  toward  the  grave;  and  therefore  they  had  their 
backs  turned  toward  me. 

One  of  the  women  was  dressed  in  a  bonnet  and  shawl. 
The  other  wore  a  long  traveling-cloak  of  a  dark-blue  color, 
with  the  hood  drawn  over  her  head.  A  few  inches  of  her 
gown  were  visible  below  the  cloak.  My  heart  beat  fast  as 
1  noted  the  color — it  was  white. 

After  advancing  about  half-way  between  the  church  and 
the  grave,  they  stopped;  and  the  woman  in  the  cloak 
turned  her  head  toward  her  companion.  But  her  side 
face,  which  a  bonnet  might  now  have  allowed  me  to  see, 
was  hidden  by  the  heavy,  projecting  edge  of  the  hood. 

"  Mind  you  keep  that  comfortable  warm  cloak  on,"  said 
the  same  voice  which  I  had  already  heard — the  voice  of  the 
woman  in  the  shawl.  "Mrs,  Todd  is  right  about  your 
looking  too  particular,  yesterday,  all  in  white.  I'll  walk 
about  a  litLie,  while  you're  here;  church-yards  being  not 
at  all  in  my  way,  whatever  they  may  be  in  yours.  Finish 
what  you  want  to  do,  before  1  come  back;  and  let  us  be 
sure  and  get  home  again  before  pight. " 

With  those  words  she  turned   about,  and  retracing  her 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  89 

stops,  advanced  with  her  face  toward  me.  It  was  the  face 
of  au  elderly  woman,  brown,  rugged,  and  healthy,  with 
nothing  dishonest  or  sus{)icious  in  the  look  of  it.  Close  to 
the  charch,  she  stopped  to  pull  her  shawl  closer  round 
her. 

"  Queer,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  always  queer  with  her 
whims  and  her  ways,  ever  since  I  can  remember  her. 
Harmless,  though — as  harmless,  poor  soul,  as  a  little 
child.'' 

She  sighed;  looked  about  the  burial-ground  nervously; 
shook  her  head  as  if  the  dreary  prospect  by  no  means 
pleased  her,  and  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the 
church. 

1  doubted  for  a  moment  whether  1  ought  to  follow  and 
speak  to  her,  or  not.  My  intense  anxiety  to  find  myself 
face  to  face  with  her  conipanion  helped  me  to  decide  in 
the  negative.  I  could  insure  seeing  the  woman  in  the 
fehawl  by  waiting  near  the  church-yard  until  she  came 
back — although  it  seemed  more  than  doubtful  whether  she 
would  give  me  the  information  of  which  I  was  in  search. 
The  person  who  had  delivered  the  letter  was  of  little  conse- 
quence. The  person  who  had  written  it  was  the  one  center 
of  interest,  and  the  one  source  of  information;  and  that 
person  I  now  felt  convinced  was  before  me  in  the  church- 
yard. 

While  these  ideas  were  passing  through  my  mind,  1  saw 
the  woman  in  the  cloak  approach  close  to  the  grave,  and 
stand  looking  at  it  for  a  little  while.  IShe  then  glanced 
all  round  her,  and,  taking  a  white  linen  cloth  or  handker- 
chief from  under  her  cloak,  turned  aside  toward  the  brook. 
The  little  stream  ran  into  the  church-yard  under  a  tiny 
archway  in  the  bottom  of  the  wall,  and  ran  out  again,  after 
a  winding  course  of  a  few  dozen  yards,  under  a  similar 
opening.  She  dipped  the  cloth  in  the  water,  and  returned 
to  the  grave.  I  saw  her  kiss  the  white  cross;  then  kneel 
down  before  the  inscription,  and  apply  her  wet  cloth  to 
the  cleansing  of  it. 

After  considering  how  I  could  show  myself  with  the 
least  possible  chance  of  frightening  her,  1  resolved  to  cross 
the  wall  before  me,  to  skirt  round  it  outside,  and  to  enter 
the  church-yard  ac(aiu  by  the  stile  near  the  grave,  in  order 
that  she  might  see  me  as  1  approached.  She  was  so  ab- 
goiOed  over  her  employment  that  she  did  not  hear  me  com- 


90  THE    WOMAX    IM     WTTITE. 

iiig  until  I  had  stepped  over  the  stile.  Then,  she  looked 
up,  started  to  her  feet  with  a  faint  cry,  and  stood  facing 
me  in  speechless  and  motionless  terror. 

"  Don't  be  frightened/'  1  said.  "  Surely  you  remem- 
ber me?" 

I  stopped  while  I  spoke — then  advanced  a  few  steps 
gently — then  stopped  agani— and  so  approached  by  little 
and  little,  till  I  was  close  to  her.  If  there  had  been  any 
doubt  still  left  in  my  mind,  it  must  now  have  been  set  at 
rest.  There,  speaking  affrightedly  for  itself — there  was 
the  same  face  confronting  me  over  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave 
which  had  first  looked  into  mine  on  the  high-road  by 
uight. 

"You  remember  me?"  I  said.  "We  met  very  late, 
and  1  helped  you  to  find  the  way  to  London.  Surely 
you  have  not  forgotten  that?" 

Her  features  relaxed,  and  she  drew  a  heavy  breath  of 
relief.  I  saw  the  new  life  of  recognition  stirring  slowly 
under  the  death-like  stillness  which  fear  had  set  on  her 
face. 

"  Don't  attempt  to  speak  to  me,  just  yet,"  I  went  on. 
"  Take  time  to  recover  yourself — take  time  to  feel  quite 
certain  that  I  am  a  friend." 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  she  murmured.  "As 
kind  now,  as  you  were  then." 

She  stopped,  and  I  kept  silence  on  my  side.  I  was  not 
granting  time  for  composure  to  her  only,  I  was  gaining 
time  also  for  myself.  Under  the  wan  wild  evening  light, 
that  woman  and  I  were  met  together  again;  a  grave  be- 
tween us,  the  dead  about  us,  the  lonesome  hills  closing  us 
round  on  every  side.  The  time,  the  place,  the  circum- 
stances under  which  we  now  stood  face  to  face  in  the  even- 
ing stillness  of  that  dreary  valley;  the  life-long  interests 
which  might  hang  suspended  on  the  next  chance  words 
that  passed  betv/een  us;  the  sense  that,  for  aught  1  knew 
to  the  contrary,  the  whole  future  of  Laura  Fairlie's  life 
might  be  determined,  for  good  or  for  evil,  by  my  winning 
or  losing  the  confidence  of  the  forlorn  creature  who  stood 
trembling  by  her  mother's  grave — all  threatened  to  sbake 
the  steadiness  and  the  self-control  on  which  every  inch  of 
the  progress  I  might  3'et  make  now  depended.  I  trioi^. 
hard,  as  1  felt  this   to  possess  myseli  of  all  my  resources; 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  91 

1  did  my  utmost  to  turn  the  few  moments  for  reflection 
to  the  best  account. 

"  Are  you  calmer,  now?"  1  said,  as  soon  as  I  thought  it 
time  to  speak  again.  "  Can  you  talk  to  me  without  feel- 
ing frightened,  and  without  forgetting  that  1  am  a  friend?^' 

''  How  did  you  come  here?"  she  asked,  without  noticing 
what  1  had  just  said  to  her. 

"Don't  you  remember  my  telling  you,  when  we  last 
met,  tnat  I  was  going  to  Cumberland?  I  have  been  in 
Cumberland  ever  since;  I  have  been  staying  all  the  time 
at  Limmeridge  House.  ^' 

"  At  Limmeridge  House!"  Her  pale  face  brightened 
as  she  repeated  the  words;  her  wandering  eyes  fixed  on 
me  witn  a  sudden  interest.  "  Ah,  how  happy  you  must 
have  been!"  she  said,  looking  at  me  eagerly,  without  a 
shadow  of  its  former  distrust  left  in  her  expression. 

I  took  advantage  of  her  newly  aroused  confidence  in  me, 
to  observe  her  face,  with  an  attention  and  a  curiosity 
which  I  had  hitherto  restrained  myself  from  showing,  for 
caution's  sake.  1  looked  at  her,  with  my  mind  full  of  that 
other  lovely  face  which  had  so  ominously  recalled  her  to 
my  memory  on  the  terrace  by  moonlight.  1  had  seen 
Anne  Catherick's  likeness  in  Miss  Fairlie.  I  now  saw  Miss 
fairlie's  likeness  in  Anne  Catherick — saw  it  all  the  more 
clearly  Decause  the  points  of  dissimilarity  between  the  two 
were  presented  to  me  as  well  as  the  points  of  resemblance. 
In  the  general  outline  of  the  countenance,  the  general  pro- 
portion of  the  features;  in  the  color  of  the  hair  and  in  the 
little  nervous  uncertainty  about  the  lips;  in  the  height  and 
size  of  the  figure,  and  the  carriage  of  the  head  and  body, 
ihe  likeness  appeared  even  more  startling  than  I  had  ever 
felt  it  to  be  yet.  But  there  the  resemblance  ended,  and 
the  dissimilarity  in  details  began.  The  delicate  beauty 
of  Miss  Fairlie's  complexion,  the  transparent  clearness  of 
her  eyes,  the  smooth  purity  of  her  skin,  the  tender  bloom 
of  color  on  her  lips,  were  all  missiiig  from  the  worn,  weai'y 
face  that  was  now  turned  toward  mine.  Although  I 
hated  myself  even  for  thinking  such  a  thing,  still,  while  I 
looked  at  the  woman  before  m*.',  the  idea  would  force  itself 
into  my  mind  that  one  sad  change,  in  the  future,  was  all 
that  was  wanting  to  make  the  likeness  complete,  which  I 
now  saw  to  be  so  inipeii'ect  in  detail.  If  ever  sori'ow  and 
Buffering  set  their  profaning  marks  on  the  youth  and  beau- 


52  fSE    WOMAN    IN-    WHITE. 

ty  of  Miss  Faidie's  face,  then,  and  then  only,  Anne  Catk 
erick  and  slie  would  be  the  twin  sisters  of  chance  resem 
blance,  the  living  reflections  of  each  other. 

I  shuddered  at  the  thought.  There  was  something  hon 
rible  in  the  blind  unreasoning  distrust  of  the  future  which 
the  mere  passage  of  it  through  my  mind  seemed  to  imply. 
It  was  a  welcome  interruption  to  be  roused  by  feeling  Anne 
Catherick's  hand  laid  on  my  shoulder.  The  touch  was  as 
stealthy  and  as  sudden  as  tliat  other  touch,  which  had  pet- 
rified me  from  head  to  foot  on  the  night  when  we  first 
met. 

"  You  are  looking  at  me;  and  you  are  thinking  of  some- 
thing," she  said,  with  her  strange,  breathless  rapidity  ot 
utterance.     "  What  is  it?" 

"  Nothing  extraordinary,'*  1  answered.  "  I  was  only 
wondering  how  you  came  here." 

"  I  came  here  with  a  friend  who  is  very  good  to  me.  1 
have  only  been  here  two  days." 

"  And  you  found  your  way  to  this  place  yesterday.^'* 

"  How  do  you  know  that?" 

"  1  only  guessed  it." 

She  turned  from  me,  and  knelt  down  before  the  inscrip- 
tion once  morCo 

"  Where  should  I  go,  if  not  here?"  she  said.  "  Tiie 
friend  who  was  better  than  a  mother  to  me,  is  the  only 
friend  1  liave  to  visit  at  Limmeridge.  Oh,  it  makes  my 
heart  ache  to  see  a  stain  on  her  tomb!  It  ought  to  be  kept 
white  as  snow  for  her  sake.  I  was  tempted  to  begin  clean- 
ing it  yesterday?  and  I  can't  help  coming  back  to  go  on 
with  it  to-day.  Is  there  anything  wrong  in  that?  1  hope 
not.  Surely  nothing  can  be  wrong  that  I  do  for  Mrs. 
Fairlie's  sake?" 

The  old  grateful  sense  of  her  benefactress's  kindness  was 
evidently  the  ruling  idea  still  in  the  poor  creature's  mind 
— the  narrow  mind  which  had  but  too  plainly  opened  to  nc 
other  lasting  impression  since  that  first  impression  of  her 
younger  and  happier  days.  I  saw  that  my  best  chance  ot 
winning  her  confidence  lay  in  e!)couraging  her  to  proceed 
wilh  the  artless  employment  nhich  she  had  come  into  the 
burial-ground  to  pursue.  She  resi;med  it  at  once,  on  my 
telling  her  that  she  might  do  so;  touching  the  hard  marble 
as  tptiderly  as  if  it  had  been  :;.  scntitnt  thing,  and  uhisper- 
iiig  the  words  of   the  iuscripiion   to  herself,  over  and  cvei 


THE    WCMAiT    ly    V/HITE.  93 

again,  as  if  ttie  lost  days  of  her  gii-lhood  had  returned  and 
slio  was  patiently  iearuiiig  her  lesson  ouce  more  at  Mrs. 
Fairlie's  knees. 

"  Should  you  wonder  very  much,"  I  said,  preparing  the 
way  as  cautiously  as  I  could  for  the  questions  that  were  to 
coiue,  "  if  I  owned  that  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  me,  as  well 
as  a  surprise,  to  see  you  here?  1  felt  very  uneasy  about 
you  after  you  left  me  in  the  cab/' 

She  looked  up  quickly  and  suspiciously. 

"  Uneasy,"  she  repeated.     "  Why?" 

"  A  strange  thing  happened,  'diiev  we  parted,  that  night. 
Two  men  overtook  me  in  a  chaise.  They  did  not  see  where 
I  was  standing;  but  they  stopped  near  me,  and  spoke  to  a 
policeman,  on  the  other  side  of  the  way." 

She  instantly  suspended  her  employment.  The  hand 
holding  the  damp  cloth  with  which  she  had  been  cleaning 
the  inscription  dropped  to  her  side.  The  other  hand 
grasped  the  marble  cross  at  the  head  of  the  grave.  Her 
face  turned  toward  me  slowly,  with  the  blank  look  of  ter- 
ror set  rigidly  on  it  once  more.  1  went  on  at  all  hazards; 
it  was  too  late  now  to  draw  back. 

"  The  two  men  spoke  to  the  policeman,"  I  said,  "  and 
asked  him  if  he  had  seen  you.  He  had  not  seen  you;  and 
then  one  of  the  men  spoke  again,  and  said  you  had  escaped 
from  his  Asylum." 

She  sprung  to  her  feet,  as  if  my  last  words  had  set  the 
pursuers  on  her  track. 

"  Stop,  and  hear  the  end,"  1  cried.  "  Stop,  and  you 
shall  know  how  1  befriended  you.  A  word  from  me  would 
have  told  the  men  which  way  you  had  gone — and  I  never 
frpoke  that  word.  1  helped  your  escape — 1  made  it  safe  and 
certain.  Think,  trv  to  think.  Try  to  understand  what  I 
tell  you." 

My  manner  seemed  to  influence  her  more  than  my  words. 
She  made  an  effort  to  grasp  the  new  idea.  Her  hands 
shifted  the  damp  cloth  hesitatingly  from  one  to  the  other, 
exactly  as  they  had  shifted  the  little  traveling-bag  on  the 
night  when  I  first  saw  her.  Slowly  tlie  purpose  of  my 
words  seemed  to  force  its  way  through  the  confusion  and 
figitation  of  her  mind.  Slowly  her  features  relaxed,  and 
hiM-  eves  looked  at  me  with  their  expression  gaining  in  cu?i- 
usity  what  it  was  fast  losing  iu  fear. 


94  THE    WOMAN    IN    WRITE. 

'•  You  don't  think  I  ought  to  be  back  in  the  Asylums 
do  you?"  she  said. 

"  Certainly  not.  I  am  glad  you  escaped  from  it;  1  am 
glad  1  helped  you.'' 

"  Yes,  yes;  you  did  help  me  indeed;  you  helped  me  at 
the  hard  part,"  she  went  on,  a  little  vacantly.  "  It  was 
easy  to  escape,  or  I  should  not  have  got  away.  Tiiey 
never  suspected  me  as  they  suspected  the  others.  ]  was 
so  quiet,  and  so  obedient,  and  so  easily  frightened.  The 
finding  London  was  the  hard  part;  and  there  you  helped 
me.  Did  I  thank  you  at  the  time?  I  thank  you  now, 
very  kindly." 

"  Was  the  Asylum  far  from  where  you  met  me?  Cnmo! 
show  that  you  believe  me  to  be  your  friend,  and  tell  me 
where  it  was." 

She  mentioned  the  place— a  private  Asylum,  as  Its  situa- 
tion informed  me;  a  private  Asylum  not  very  far  from  the 
spot  where  1  had  seen  her — and  then  with  evident  sus- 
picion of  the  use  to  which  1  might  put  her  answer,  anxiously 
repeated  her  former  inquiry:  "  You  don't  think  I  ought 
to  be  taken  back,  do  you?" 

"Once  again,  I  am  glad  you  escaped;  I  am  glad  you 
prospered  well,  after  you  left  me,"  I  answered.  "  You 
said  you  had  a  friend  in  London  to  go  to.  Did  you  tind 
the  friend?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  very  lat  •  r)ut  there  was  a  girl  up  at 
needle-work  in  the  house,  and  she  helped  me  to  rouse  Mrs, 
Clements.  Mrs.  Clements  is  my  friend.  A  good,  kind 
woman,  but  not  like  Mrs.  Fairlie.  Ah,  no,  nobody  is  like 
Mrs.  Fairlie!" 

"  Is  Mrs.  Clements  an  old  friend  of  yours?  Have  you 
known  her  a  long  time?" 

"  Yes;  she  was  a  neighbor  of  ours  once,  at  home,  in 
Hampshire;  and  liked  me,  and  took  care  of  me  when  I 
was  a  little  girl.  Years  ago,  when  she  went  away  from  us, 
she  wrote  down  in  my  prayer-book  for  me  where  she  was 
going  to  lii'e  in  London,  and  she  said,  '  If  you  are  ever  iji 
trouble,  A'l^e,  come  to  me.  I  liavo  no  husband  alive  to 
say  me  nay,  and  no  children  to  look  arter;  and  I  will  take 
care  of  you.'  Kind  words,  were  thoy  not?  I  suppose  1 
remember  them  because  they  were  kind.  It's  little  enough 
I  remember  besides — little  enough,  little  cnongli!'' 

"  Had  you  no  father  or  mother  to  take  care  of  you?'^- 


THE    WOMAN"    IN"    WHITE.  9et 

"  Father?  I  never  saw  him;  I  never  heaid  mothpr  fc;pea,k 
i>f  him.     Father?     Ah,  dear!  he  is  dead,  I  suppose.'' 

"  And  your  mother?" 

"  I  don't  get  on  well  with  her.  We  are  a  trouble  and  a 
fear  to  each  other," 

A  trouble  and  a  fear  to  each  other!  At  those  words,  the 
suspicion  crossed  my  mind,  for  the  first  time,  that  her 
mother  might  be  the  person  who  had  jslaced  her  under  re- 
straint. 

"  Don't  ask  me  about  mother,"  she  went  on.  "  I'd 
rather  talk  of  Mrs.  Clements.  Mrs.  Clemehcs  is  like  you, 
she  doesn't  think  that  I  ought  to  be  back  in  the  Asylum; 
and  she  is  as  glad  as  you  are  that  I  escaped  from  it.  She 
cried  over  my  misfortune,  and  said  it  must  be  kept  secret 
from  everybody." 

Her  "  misfortune."  In  what  sense  was  she  using  that 
word?  In  a  sense  which  might  explain  her  motive  in  writ- 
ing the  anonymous  letter?  In  a  sense  which  might  show 
it  to  be  the  too  common  and  too  customary  motive  that  has 
led  many  a  woman  to  interpose  anonymous  hinderances  to 
the  marriage  of  the  man  who  has  ruined  her?  I  resolved 
to  attempt  the  clearing  up  of  this  doubt  before  more  words 
passed  between  us  on  either  side. 

"  What  misfortune?"  1  asked. 

"  The  misfortune  of  my  being  shut  up,"  she  answered, 
with  every  appearance  of  feeling  surprised  at  my  question. 
"  What  other  misfortune  could  there  be?" 

I  determined  to  persist,  as  delicately  and  forbearingly 
as  possible.  It  was  of  very  great  importance  that  I  should 
be  absolutely  sure  of  every  step  in  the  investigation  which 
I  now  gained  in  advance. 

"  There  is  another  misfortune,"  I  said,  "  to  which  a 
woman  may  be  liable,  and  by  which  she  may  suffer  life- 
long sorrow  and  shame." 

"  What  is  it?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  The  misfortune  of  believing  too  innocently  in  her  owe 
virtue,  and  in  the  faith  and  honor  of  the  man  she  loves,'* 
1  answered. 

She  looked  up  at  me  with  the  artless  bewilderment  of  a 
child.  Not  the  slightest  confusion  or  change  of  color;  not 
^.he  faintest  trace  of  any  secret  consciousness  of  shame 
struggling  to  the  surface,  appparwl  in  her  faf-e — that  face 
which  betrayed  every  other  umouou  vviLii  sucii  trau;ipurcut 


56  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Clearness.  No  words  that  ever  were  spoken  couM  have  as- 
sured me.  a?  her  look  and  manner  now  assured  me,  that 
the  motive  which  I  had  assigned  for  her  writing  the  lette? 
and  sending  ir  to  Miss  F"'.r'.ie  v/as  plainly  and  distinctly  the 
wrong  one.  That  doubt  at  any  rate,  was  now  set  at  rest^ 
but  the  very  removal  ci  it  opened  a  new  prospect  of  un- 
certainty.  The  letter,  as  1  knew  from  positive  testimony; 
pointed  at  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  tnough  it  did  not  name  him. 
IShe  must  have  had  some  strong  motive,  origmating  in  some 
deep  sense  of  inju.7,  for  secretly  denouncing  him  to  Miss 
Fairlie,  in  such  terms  as  she  had  employed — and  that  mo- 
tive was  unquestionably  not  to  be  traced  to  the  loss  of  her 
Miuocence  and  her  character.  Whatever  wrong  he  might 
have  inflicted  on  her  was  not  of  that  nature.  Of  what 
nature  could  it  be? 

"  1  don't  understand  you,*'  she  said,  after  evidently  try- 
ing hard,  and  trying  in  vain  to  discover  the  meaning  of  the 
worrls  I  had  last  said  to  her. 

"  Never  mind,''  I  answered.  "  Let  us  go  on  with  what 
we  were  talking  about.  Tell  me  now  long  you  stayed  with 
Mrs.  Clements  in  London,  and  how  you  came  here." 

"  How  long?"  she  repeated.  "  1  stayed  with  Mrs. 
Clements  till  we  both  came  to  this  place,  two  days  ago.''' 

"  You  are  living  in  the  village,  then?"  1  said.  "'  It  is 
strange  I  should  not  have  heard  of  you,  though  you  have 
only  been  here  two  days." 

"  No,  no;  not  in  the  village.  Three  miles  away  at  a 
farm.  Do  you  know  the  farm?  They  call  it  Todd's  Cor- 
ner." 

I  remembered  the  place  perfectly;  we  had  often  passed 
by  it  in  our  drives.  It  was  one  of  the  oldest  farms  in  the 
neighborhood,  situated  in  a  solitary,  sheltered  spot,  inland 
at  the  junction  of  two  hills. 

"  They  are  relations  of  Mrs.  Clements  at  Todd's  Cor- 
ner," slie  went  on,  "  and  they  had  often  asked  her  to  go 
and  see  them.  She  said  she  would  go,  and  take  me  with 
her,  for  the  quiet  and  the  fresh  air.  It  was  very  kind,  was 
it  not?  I  would  have  gone  anywhere  to  be  quiet,  and  safe, 
and  out  of  the  way.  But  when  I  heard  that  Todd's  Corner 
was  .near  Limmeridge — oh!  I  was  so  tiappy  I  would  liave 
walked  all  the  way  barefoot  to  get  there,  and  see  the 
schools  and  the  village  and  Limmeridgo  House  a^'am.  They 
are  very  good  people  at  Todd's  Corner.     1  hope  I  sball 


THE    WOMAN    m    WHITE.  97 

stay  there  a  long  time.  There  is  only  one  thing  I  don't 
like  about  them,  and  don't  like  about  Mrs.  Clements — " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  They  will  tease  me  about  dressing  all  in  white — they 
say  it  looks  so  particular.  How  do  they  know?  Mrs.  Fair- 
lie  knew  best.  Mrs.  Fairlie  would  never  have  made  me 
wear  this  ugly  blue  cloak!  Ah!  she  was  fond  of  white  in 
her  life-time;  and  here  is  white  stone  about  her  grave — and 
I  am  making  it  whiter  for  her  sake.  She  often  wore  white 
herself;  and  she  always  dressed  her  little  daughter  in 
white.  Is  Miss  Fairlie  well  and  happy?  Does  she  wear 
white  now,  as  she  used  when  she  was  a  girl?" 

Her  voice  sunk  when  she  put  the  questions  about  Miss 
Fairlie;  and  she  turned  her  head  further  and  further  away 
from  me.  I  thought  1  detected,  in  tlie  alteration  of  her 
manner,  an  uneasy  consciousness  of  the  risk  she  had  run  in 
sending  the  anonymous  letter;  and  I  instantly  determined 
so  to  frame  my  answer  as  to  surprise  her  into  owning  it. 

"  Miss  Fairlie  is  not  very  well  or  very  happy  this  morn- 
ing," 1  said. 

She  murmured  a,  tew  words;  but  they  were  spoken  so 
confusedly,  and  in  such  a  low  tone,  that  1  could  not  even 
guess  at  what  they  meant. 

"  Did  you  ask  me  why  Miss  Fairlie  was  neither  well  nor 
happy  this  morning?"  1  continued. 

"  No,"  she  said,  quickly  and  eagerly — "  oh,  no,  I  never 
asked  that." 

"  I  will  tell  you  without  your  asking,"  I  went  on. 
"  Miss  Fairlie  has  received  your  letter." 

She  had  been  down  on  her  knees  for  some  little  time 
past,  carefully  removing  the  last  weather-stains  left  about 
the  inscription  while  we  were  speaking  together.  The  first 
sentence  of  the  words  1  had  just  addressed  to  her  made  her 
pause  in  her  occupation,  and  turn  slowly  without  rising 
from  her  knees,  so  as  to  face  me.  The  second  sentence 
literally  petrified  her.  The  cloth  she  had  been  holding 
dropped  from  her  hands;  her  lips  fell  apart;  all  the  little 
color  that  there  was  naturally  in  her  face  left  it  in  an  iti- 
stant. 

"  How  do  you  know?"  she  said,  faintly.  "  Who 
showed  it  to  you?"  The  blood  rushed  back  into  her  face 
— rushed  overwhelmingly,  as  the  sense  rushed  npoii  her 
mind  that  her  own  words  had   betrayed  her.     She  struck 


98  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHTTK. 

her  hands  together  in  despair.  "  I  never  wrote  it/*  she 
gasped,  atirightedly;  "  I  know  nothing  about  it!" 

"  Yes/'  I  said,  "  you  wrote  it,  and  you  know  about  it. 
It  was  wrong  to  send  such  a  letter;  it  was  wrong  to  frighten 
Miss  Fairlie.  If  you  had  anything  to  say  that  it  was  right 
and  necessary  for  her  to  hear,  you  should  have  gone  to 
Limmeridge  House;  you  should  have  spoken  to  the  young 
lady  with  your  own  lips.'" 

She  crouched  down  over  the  flat  stone  of  the  grave  till 
her  face  was  hidden  on  it,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  Miss  Fairlie  will  be  as  good  and  kind  to  you  as  her 
mother  was,  if  you  mean  well/'  I  went  on.  "  Miss  Fair- 
lie  will  keep  your  secret,  and  not  let  you  come  to  any 
harm.  Will  you  see  her  to-morrow  at  the  farm?  Will 
you  meet  her  in  the  garden  at  Limmeridge  House?" 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  die,  and  be  hidden  and  at  rest  with 
you!"  Her  lips  murmured  the  words  close  on  the  grave- 
stone; murmured  them  in  tones  of  passionate  endearment, 
to  the  dead  remains  beneath.  "  Yoti  know  how  I  love 
your  child,  for  your  sake!  Oh,  Mrs.  Fairlie!  Mrs.  Fairlie! 
itell  me  how  to  save  her.  Be  my  darling  and  my  mother 
once  more,  and  tell  me  what  to  do  for  the  best.'' 

I  heard  her  lips  kissing  the  stone;  I  saw  her  hands  beat- 
ing on  it  passionately.  The  sound  and  the  sight  deeply 
affected  me.  I  stooped  down,  and  took  the  poor  helpless 
hands  tenderly  in  mine,  and  tried  to  soothe  her. 

It  was  useless.  She  snatched  her  hands  from  me,  and 
never  moved  her  face  from  the  stone.  Seeing  the  urgent 
necessity  of  quieting  her  at  any  hazard  and  by  any  means, 
I  appealed  to  the  only  anxiety  that  she  appeared  to  feel, 
in  connection  with  me  and  with  my  opinion  of  her — the 
anxiety  to  convince  me  of  her  fitness  to  be  mistress  of  her 
own  actions. 

"  Come,  come,"  1  said,  gently.  "  Try  to  compose  your- 
self, or  you  will  make  me  alter  my  opinion  of  you.  Don't 
let  me  think  that  the  person  who  put  you  in  the  Asylum 
might  have  had  some  excuse — " 

The  next  words  died  away  on  my  lips.  The  instant  I 
risked  that  chance  reference  to  the  person  who  had  put  her 
in  the  Asylum,  she  sprung  up  on  her  knees.  A  most  ex- 
traordinary and  startling  change  passed  over  her.  Her 
face,  at  all  ordinary  times  so  touching  to  look  at,  in  its 
nervous  sensitiveness,  weakness,  and  uncertainty,  became 


THE    WOMAN    IN     V.'HITE.  99 

suddenly  darkened  by  an  expression  of  maniacally  intense 
hatred  and  fear,  which  communicated  a  wild,  unnatural 
force  to  every  feature.  Her  eyes  dilated  in  the  dim  even- 
ing light,  like  the  eyes  of  a  wild  animal.  She  caught  up 
the  cloth  that  had  fallen  at  her  side,  as  if  it  had  been  a  liv- 
ing creature  that  she  could  kill,  and  crushed  it  in  both  her 
hands  with  such  convulsive  strength  that  the  few  drops  of 
moisture  left  in  it  triciiled  down  on  the  stone  beneath  her. 

"  Talk  of  something  else,"  she  said,  whispering  through 
hor  teeth.     "  I  shall  lose  myself  if  you  talk  of  that.'' 

Every  vestige  of  the  gentler  thoughts  which  had  filled 
her  mind  hardly  a  minute  since  seemed  to  be  swept  from 
it  now.  It  was  evident  that  the  impression  left  by  Mrs. 
Fairlie's  kindness  was  not,  as  1  had  supposed,  the  only 
strong  impression  on  her  memory.  With  the  grateful  re- 
membrance of  her  school-days  at  Limmeridge,  there  exii-ted 
the  vindictive  remembrance  of  the  wrong  infiicted  on  her 
by  her  confinement  in  the  Asylum.  Who  had  done  that 
wrong?     Could  it  really  be  her  mother? 

It  was  hard  to  give  up  pui-suing  the  inquiry  to  that  final 
point;  but  I  forced  myself  to  abandon  all  idea  of  continu- 
ing it.  Seeing  her  as  I  saw  her  now,  it  would  have  been 
cruel  to  think  of  anything  but  the  necessity  and  the  hu- 
manity of  restoring  her  composure. 

"  I  will  talk  of  nothing  to  distress  you,"  I  said,  sooth- 
ingly-^ 

"  You  want  something,"  she  answered,  sharply  and  sus- 
piciously. "  Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  Speak  to  me; 
tell  me  what  you  want." 

"  I  only  want  you  to  quiet  )'ourself,  and,  when  you  are 
calmer,  to  think  over  what  1  have  said." 

"  Said?"  She  paused;  twisted  the  cloth  in  her  hands, 
backward  and  forward;  and  whispered  to  herself,  "  What 
is  it  he  said?"  She  turned  again  toward  me,  and  shook  her 
head  impatiently.  "  Why  don't  you  help  me?"  she  asked^ 
with  angry  suddenness, 

"  Yes,  yes,"  1  said;  "  I  will  help  you;  and  you  will  soon 
remember.  1  asked  you  to  see  Miss  Fairlie  to-morrow,  and 
to  tell  her  the  truth  about  the  letter." 

"  Ah!  Miss  Fairlie— Fairlie— Fairlie— " 

The  mere  utterance  of  the  loved,  familiar  name  seemed 
to  quiet  her.     Her  face  softened  and  grew  like  itself  again. 

"  You  need  have  no  fear  of  Miss  Fairlie,"  I  coutiuued; 


100  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  and  no  fear  of  getting  into  trouble  through  the  lette/. 
She  knows  so  much  about  it  already,  that  you  will  have 
no  ditticulty  in  telling  her  all.  There  can  be  little  ni-ces- 
sily  for  concealment  where  there  is  hardly  anything  left  to 
conceal.  You  mention  no  names  in  the  letter;  but  Miss 
Fairlie  knows  that  the  person  you  write  of  is  Sir  Percival 
Glyde— " 

The  instant  I  pronounced  that  name  she  started  to  her 
feet,  and  a  scream  burst  from  her  that  rang  through  the 
church-yard  and  made  my  heart  leap  in  me  with  the  terror 
of  it.  The  dark  deformity  of  the  expression  which  had 
just  left  her  face,  lowered  on  it  once  more,  with  doubled 
and  trebled  intensity.  The  shriek  at  the  name,  the  re- 
iterated look  of  hatred  and  fear  that  instantly  followed, 
told  all.  Not  even  a  last  doubt  now  remained.  Her 
mother  was  guiltless  of  imprisoning  her  iji  the  Asylum. 
A  man  had  shut  her  up — and  that  man  was  Sir  Percival 
Glyde. 

The  scream  had  reached  other  ears  than  mine.  On  one 
side,  1  heard  the  door  of  the  sexton's  cottage  open;  on  the 
other  I  heard  the  voice  of  her  companion,  the  woman  in 
the  shawl,  the  woman  whom  she  had  spoken  of  as  Mrs. 
Clements. 

"  I'm  coming!  l*m  coming!"  cried  the  voice,  from  be- 
hind the  clump  of  dwarf  trees. 

In  a  moment  more,  Mrs.  Clements  hurried  into  view. 

"  Who  are  you?"  she  cried,  facing  me  resolutely,  as  she 
set  her  foot  on  the  stile.  "  How  dare  you  frighten  a  poor 
helpless  woman  like  that?" 

She  was  at  Anne  Catherick's  side,  and  had  put  one  arm 
around  her,  before  I  could  answei'.  "  What  is  it,  my 
dear?"  she  said.     "  What  has  he  done  to  you?" 

"  Nothing,"  the  poor  creature  answered.  "Nothing, 
J'm  only  frightened." 

Mrs.  Clements  turned  on  me  with  a  fearless  indignation, 
for  which  I  respected  her. 

"  I  should  be  heartily  ashamed  of  myself  if  I  deserved 
that  angry  look,"  I  said.  "  But  1  do  not  deserve  it.  J 
have  unfortunately  startled  her,  without  intending  it. 
This  is  not  the  first  time  she  has  seen  me.  Ask  her  your- 
self, and  she  will  tell  you  that  I  am  incapable  of  willingly 
harming  her  or  any  woman." 

I   spoke  distinctly,  so  that  Anne  Catherick  might  hear 


THE    WOMAN     IN    WHITE.  lOl 

and  understand  me;  and  1  saw  that  the  words  and  their 
meaning  had  reaL-Jied  her. 

•'Yes,  yes,"  she  said;  "he  was  good  to  me  once;  he 
helped  me — "  She  whispered  the  rest  into  her  friend's 
ear. 

"  Strange,  indeed!"  said  Mrs,  Clements,  with  a  look  of 
perplexity.  "  It  makes  all  the  difference,  though.  I'm 
sorry  I  spoke  so  rough  to  you,  sir;  but  you  must  own  that 
appearances  looked  suspicious  to  a  stranger.  It's  more  my 
fault  than  yours,  for  humoring  her  whims,  and  letting  her 
be  alone  in  such  a  place  as  this.  Come,  my  dear — come 
home  now." 

I  thought  the  good  woman  looked  a  little  uneasy  at  the 
prospect  of  the  walk  back,  and  I  offered  to  go  with  them 
until  they  were  both  within  sight  of  home.  Mrs.  Clements 
thanked  me  civilly,  and  declined.  She  said  they  were  sure 
to  meet  some  of  the  farm-laborers  as  soon  as  they  got  to 
the  moor. 

"  Try  to  forgive  me,"  I  said,  when  Anne  Catherick  took 
her  friend's  arm  to  go  away.  Innocent  as  I  had  been  of 
any  intention  to  terrify  and  agitate  her,  my  heart  smote  me 
as  I  looked  at  the  poor,  pale,  frightened  face. 

"  I  will  try,'^  she  answered.  "  But  you  know  too  much; 
I'm  afraid  you'll  always  frighten  me  now." 

Mrs.  Clements  glanced  at  me,  and  shook  her  head  pity- 
ingly, 

"  Good-night,  sir,"  she  said.  "  You  couldn't  help  it,  I 
know;  but  I  wish  it  was  me  you  had  frightened,  and  not 
her." 

They  moved  away  a  few  steps.  1  thought  they  had  left 
me;  but  Anne  suddenly  stojjped,  and  separated  herself 
from  her  friend. 

"  Wait  a  little,"  she  said.     "  1  must  say  good-bye." 

She  returned  to  the  grave,  rested  both  hands  tenderly  on 
the  marble  cross,  and  kissed  it. 

"  I'm  better  now,"  she  sighed,  looking  up  at  me  quiet- 
ly.    "1  forgive  you." 

She  joined  her  companion  again,  and  they  left  the  burial- 
ground.  I  saw  them  stop  near  the  church,  and  speak  to 
the^ sexton's  wife,  who  had  come  from  the  cottage,  and  had 
waited,  watching  us  from  a  distance.  Then  they  went  on 
again  up  the  path  (hat  led  to  the  moor.  I  looked  after 
Auue  Catherick  as  ishe  disappeared,  till  all  trace  of  her  hs'i 


209  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

faJud  in  the  twilight — looked  as  anxiously  and  soi-rowfully 
as  if  that  was  the  last  I  was  to  see  in  this  weary  world  of 
the  woman  in  white. 


XIV. 


Half  an  hour  later,  I  was  back  at  the  house,  and  was 
informing  Miss  Halcombe  of  all  that  had  happened. 

She  listened  to  me  from  beginning  to  end,  with  a  steady, 
silent  attention,  which,  in  a  woman  of  her  temperament 
and  disposition,  was  the  strongest  proof  that  could  be 
offered  of  the  serious  manner  in  which  my  narrative  affected 
her. 

"  My  mind  misgives  me,"  was  all  she  said  when  1  had 
done.     "  My  mind  misgives  me  sadly  about  the  future." 

"  The  future  may  depend,"  1  suggested,  "  on  the  use 
we  make  of  the  present.  It  is  not  improbable  that  Anne 
Catherick  may  speak  more  readily  and  utireservedly  to  a 
woman  than  she  has  spoken  to  me.     If  Miss  Fairlie — " 

"  Not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment,"  interposed  Miss 
Halcombe,  in  her  most  decided  manner, 

"  Let  me  suggest,  then,"  1  continued,  ""  that  you  should 
see  Anne  Catherick  yourself,  and  do  all  you  can  to  win  lier 
confidence.  For  my  own  part,  1  shrink  from  the  idea  of 
alarming  the  poor  creature  a  second  time,  as  I  have  most 
unhappily  alarmed  her  already.  Do  you  see  any  objection 
to  accompanying  me  to  the  farm-house  to-morrow?" 

"  None  whatever.  1  will  go  anywhere  and  do  anything 
to  serve  Laura's  interests.  What  did  you  say  the  place 
was  called?" 

"  You  must  know  it  well.     Ii  is  called  Todd's  Corner." 

"  Certainly.  Todd's  Corner  is  one  of  Mr.  Fairlie's 
farms.  Our  dairy-maid  here  is  the  farmer's  second  daugh- 
ter. She  goes  backward  and  forward  constantly,  between 
this  house  and  her  father's  farm;  and  she  m'ay  have  heard 
or  seen  something  which  it  may  be  useful  to  us  to  know. 
•Shall  I  ascertain,  at  once,  if  the  girl  is  down-stau's?" 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  the  servant  with  his  message. 
He  returned,  u!id  announced  that  the  dairy-maid  was  then 
at  the  farm.  She  had  not  been  there  for  the  last  three 
days;  and  the  housekeeper  had  given  her  leave  to  go  home, 
for  an  hour  or  two,  that  evening. 

'*  1  can  speak  lo  her  to-morrow,"  said  Miss  Halcombe, 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  103 

v/hen  the  servant  had  left  the  room  again.  "  In  the  meau- 
tiine,  let  mo  thoroughly  understand  the  object  to  be  gained 
by  my  interview  with  Anne  Cathericiv.  Is  there  no  doubt 
in  your  mind  that  the  person  who  confined  her  in  the 
Asylum  was  Sir  Percival  Glyde?" 

"  There  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  The  only  mys- 
tery that  remains,  is  the  mystery  of  his  motive.  Looking 
to  the  great  diilerence  between  his  station  in  life  and  hers, 
which  seems  to  preclude  all  idea  of  the  most  distant  rela- 
tionship between  them,  it  is  of  the  last  importance — even 
assuming  that  she  really  required  to  be  placed  under  re- 
straint— to  know  why  he  should  have  been  the  person  to 
assume  the  serious  responsibility  of  shutting  her  up — " 

"  In  a  private  Asylum,  1  think  you  said?" 

"  Yes,  in  a  private  Asylum,  where  a  sum  of  money  which 
no  poor  person  could  afford  to  give  must  have  been  paid 
for  her  maintenance  as  a  patient." 

"  I  see  where  the  doubt  lies,  Mr.  fiartright;  and  I  prom- 
ise you  that  it  shall  be  set  at  re^t,  whether  Ann£_Catherick 
assists  us  to-morrow  or  not.  Sir  Percival  Glyde  shall  not 
be  long  in  this  house  without  satisfying  Mr.  Glilmore,  and 
satisfying  me.  My  sister's  future  is  my  dearest  care  in 
life;  and  1  have  influence  enough  over  her  to  give  me  some 
power,  where  her  marriage  is  concerned,  hi  the  disposal  of 
It." 

We  parted  for  the  night. 

After  breakfast,  the  next  morning,  an  obstacle,  which 
the  events  of  the  evening  before  had  put  out  of  my  mem- 
ory, interposed  to  prevent  our  proceeding  immediately  to 
the  farm.  This  was  my  last  day  at  Limmeridge  House; 
and  it  was  necessary,  as  soon  as  the  post  came  in,  to  follovT' 
Miss  Halcombe's  advice,  and  to  ask  Mr.  Fairlie's  permis- 
sion to  shorten  my  engagement  by  a  month,  in  considera- 
tion of  an  unforeseen  necessity  for  my  return  to  London. 

Fortunately  for  the  probability  of  this  excuse,  so  far  as 
appearances  were  ccncerned,  the  post  brought  me  two  leu- 
ters  from  London  friends,  that  morning.  I  took  them 
away  at  once  to  my  own  room;  and  sent  the  servant  with 
a  message  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  requesting  to  know  when  I  could 
see  him  on  a  matter  of  business. 

1  awaited  the  man's  return,  free  from  the  slightest  feel- 
ing of  anxiety  about  the  mar.jier  in  which  his  master  might 
receive  my  applicRtiou.     With  Mr.  Fairlie's  leave  or  with- 


104  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

out  it,  I  must  go.  The  consciousness  of  having  now  taken 
the  first  step  on  the  dreary  journey  which  was  henceforth 
to  separate  my  life  from  Miss  Fiiirlie's  seemed  to  have 
blunted  my  sensibility  to  every  consideration  connected 
with  myself.  1  had  done  with  my  poor  man's  touchy 
pride;  I  had  done  with  all  my  little  artist  vanities.  No  in- 
solence of  Mr.  Fuirlie's,  if  he  chose  to  be  insolent,  could 
wound  me  now. 

The  servant  returned  with  a  message  for  which  I  was  not 
unprepared.  Mr.  Fairlie  regretted  that  the  state  of  his 
health,  on  that  particular  morning,  was  such  as  to  preclude 
all  hope  of  his  having  the  pleasure  of  receiving  me.  lie 
begged,  therefore,  that  ]  would  accept  his  apologies,  and 
kindly  communicate  what  1  hud  to  say,  in  the  form  of  a 
letter.  Similar  messages  to  this  had  reached  me,  at  vari- 
ous intervals,  during  my  three  months' residence  in  the 
house.  Throughout  the  whole  of  that  period,  Mr.  Fairlie 
had  been  rejoiced  to  "  possess  "  me,  but  had  never  been 
well  enough  to  see  me  for  a  second  time.  The  servant 
took  every  fresh  batch  of  drawings  that  I  mounted  and  re- 
stored, back  to  his  master,  with  my  "  respects;"  and  re- 
turned empty-handed  with  Mr.  Fairlie's  "  kind  compli- 
ments," "  best  thanks,"  and  "sincere  regrets''*  that  the 
state  of  his  health  still  obliged  him  to  remain  a  solitary 
prisoner  in  his  own  room.  A  more  satisfactory  arrange- 
ment to  both  sides  could  not  possibly  have  been  adopted. 
It  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  us,  under  the  circum- 
stances, felt  the  most  grateful  sense  of  obligation  to  Mr. 
Fairlie's  accommodating  nerves. 

I  sat  down  at  once  to  write  the  letter,  expressing  myself 
in  it  as  civilly,  as  clearly,  and  as  briefly  as  possible.  Mr. 
Fairlie  did  not  hurry  his  reply.  Nearly  an  hour  elapsed 
before  the  answer  was  placed  in  my  hands.  It  was  written 
with  beautiful  regularity  and  neatness  of  character,  in 
violet-colored  ink,  on  note-paper  as  smooth  as  ivory  and 
almost  as  thick  as  card-board;  and  it  j.ddressed  me  in 
these  terms: 

"  Mr.  Fairlie's  compliments  to  Mr-  Hartright.  Mr. 
Fairlie  is  more  surprised  and  disai)pointed  than  he  can  say 
(in  the  present  state  of  his  health)  by  Mr.  Ilartright's  ap- 
plication. Mr.  Fairlie  is  not  a  man  of  business,  but  he  has 
consulted  his  steward,  v/ho  is,  and  llmt  person  confirms 
Mr.  Fairlie's  opinion  that  Mr,  Hartright's  re(]^uest  to  be 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  105 

allowed  to  break  his  engagement  can  not  be  justified  by 
any  necessity  whatever,  excepting  perhaps  a  case  of  life 
and  death.  If  the  highly  appreciative  feeling  toward  Art 
and  its  professors,  which  it  is  the  consolation  and  happiness 
of  Mr.  Fairlie's  suffering  existence  to  cultivate,  could  be 
easily  shaken,  Mr.  Hartright's  present  proceeding  would 
have  shaken  it.  It  has  not  done  so — except  in  the  in- 
stance of  Mr.  Hartright  himself. 

"  Having  stated  his  opinion — so  far,  that  is  to  say,  as 
acute  nervous  suffering  will  allow  him  to  state  anything — 
Mr.  Fairlie  has  nothing  to  add  but  the  expression  of  his 
decision,  in  reference  to  the  highly  irregular  application 
that  has  been  made  to  him.  Perfect  repose  of  body  and 
mind  being  to  the  last  degree  important  in  his  case,  Mr. 
Fairlie  will  not  suffer  Mr.  Hartright  to  disturb  that  repose 
by  remaining  in  the  house  under  circumstances  of  an 
essentially  irritating  nature  to  both  sides.  Accordingly, 
Mr.  Fairlie  waives  his  right  of  refusal,  purely  with  a  view 
to  the  preservation  of  his  own  tranquiliity=-and  informs 
Mr.  Hartright  that  he  may  go." 

I  folded  the  letter  up  and  put  it  away  with  my  other 
papers.  The  time  had  been  when  1  should  have  resented 
it  as  an  insult:  1  accepted  it,  now,  as  a  written  release 
from  my  engagement.  It  was  off  my  mind,  it  was  almost 
out  of  my  memory,  when  I  went  down-s-tairs  to  the 
breakfast-room,  and  informed  Miss  Halcombe  that  1  was 
ready  to  walk  with  her  to  the  farm. 

"Has  Mr.  Fairlie  given  5^oua  satisfactory  answer?"  she 
asked,  as  we  left  the  house. 

"  He  has  allowed  me  to  go,  Miss  Halcombe." 

She  looked  up  at  me  quickly;  and  then,  for  the  first 
time  since  I  had  known  her,  took  my  arm  of  her  own 
accord.  No  words  could  have  expressed  so  delicately  that 
she  understood  how  the  permission  to  leave  my  employ- 
ment had  been  granted,  and  that  she  gave  me  her  sympa- 
thy, not  as  my  superior,  but  as  my  friend.  I  had  not  felt 
the  man's  insolent  letter;  but  I  felt  deeply  the  woman's 
atoning  kindness. 

On  our  way  to  the  farm  we  arranged  that  Miss  Halcombe 
was  to  enter  the  house  alone,  and  that  I  was  to  wait  out- 
side, within  call.  We  adopted  this  mode  of  proceeding 
from  an  apprehension  that  my  presence,  after  what  had 


106  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

happened  in  the  church-yard  the  evening  before,  might 
have  the  effect  of  renewing  Anne  Catherick's  nervous  dread, 
and  of  rendering  her  additionally  distrustful  of  the  ad- 
vances of  a  lady  who  was  a  stranger  to  her.  Miss  Hal- 
combe  left  me,  with  the  intention  of  speaking,  in  the  first 
instance,  to  the  farmer's  wife  (of  whose  friendly  readiness 
to  help  her  in  any  way  'she  was  well  assured),  while  I 
waited  for  her  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  house. 

1  had  fully  expected  to  be  left  alone  for  some  time.  To 
my  surprise,  however,  little  more  than  five  minutes  had 
elapsed  before  Miss  Halcombe  returned. 

"  Does  Anne  Catherick  refuse  to  see  you?"  I  asked,  in 
astonishment. 

"  Anne  Catherick  is  gone,"  replied  Miss  Halcombe. 

"Gone!" 

"  Gone  with  Mrs.  Clements.  They  both  left  the  farm 
at  eight  o'clock  this  morning." 

I  could  say  nothing — I  could  only  feel  that  our  last 
chance  of  discovery  had  gone  with  them. 

".All  that  Mrs.  Todd  knows  about  her  guests,  1  know," 
Miss  Halcombe  went  on;  "  and  it  leaves  me,  as  it  leaves 
her,  in  the  dark.  They  both  came  back  safe,  last  night, 
after  they  left  you,  and  they  passed  the  first  part  of  the 
evening  with  Mr.  Todd's  family,  as  usual.  Just  before 
supper-time,  however,  Anne  Catherick  startled  them  all 
by  being  suddenly  seized  with  faintness.  She  had  a  sim- 
ilar attack,  of  a  less  alarming  kind,  on  the  day  she  ar- 
rived at  the  farm;  and  Mrs.  Todd  had  connected  it,  on 
that  occasion,  with  something  she  was  reading  at  the  time 
in  our  local  newspaper,  which  lay  on  the  farm  table,  and 
which  she  had  taken  up  only  a  minute  or  two  before." 

"  Does  Mrs.  Todd  know  what  particular  passage  in  the 
newspaper  affected  her  in  that  way?"  1  inquired. 

"  No,"  replied  Miss  Halcombe.  "  She  had  looked  it 
over,  and  had  seen  nothing  in  it  to  agitate  any  one.  1  asked 
leave,  however,  to  look  it  over  in  my  turn;  and  the  very  first 
pa<i;e  I  opened,  1  found  that  the  editor  had  enriched  his 
small  stock  of  news  by  drawing  upon  our  family  affairs, 
and  had  published  my  sister's  marriage  engagement, 
among  his  other  announcements,  copied  from  the  London 
piipers,  of  Marriages  in  High  Life.  I  concluded  at  once 
ihat  this  was  the  paragraph  which  had  so  strangely  aiiectcd 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  107 

Anne  Catherick;  and  1  thought  1  saw  in  it,  also,  the  origin 
ei  the  letter  which  she  sent  to  our  house  next  day." 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  in  either  case.  But  what  did 
you  hear  about  her  second  attack  of  faiiitness  yesterday 
evening?" 

"  Nothing.  The  cause  of  it  is  a  complete  mystery. 
There  was  no  stranger  in  the  room.  The  only  visitor  was 
our  dairy-maid,  wlio,  as  I  told  you,  is  one  of  Mrs.  Todd's 
daughters;  and  the  only  conversation  was  the  usual  gossip 
about  local  affairs.  They  heard  her  cry  out,  and  saw  her 
turn  deadly  pale,  without  the  shghtest  apparent  reason. 
Mrs.  Todd  and  Mrs.  Clements  took  her  up  stairs;  and  Mrs. 
Clements  remained  with  her.  They  were  heard  talking 
together  until  long  after  the  usual  bed-time;  and,  early 
this  morning,  Mrs.  Clements  took  Mrs.  Todd  aside,  and 
amazed  her  beyond  all  power  of  expression,  by  saying  that 
they  must  go.  The  oidy  explanation  that  Mrs.  Todd 
could  extract  from  her  guest  was,  that  'sumething  had 
happened,  which  was  not  the  fault  of  any  one  at  the  farm- 
house, but  which  was  serious  enough  to  make  Anne  Cath- 
erick resolve  to  leave  Limmeridge  immediately.  It  was 
quite  useless  to  press  Mrs.  Clements  to  be  more  explicit. 
She  only  shook  her  head,  and  said  that,  for  Anne's  sake, 
she  must  beg  and  pray  that  no  one  would  question  her. 
All  she  could  repeat,  with  evei-y  appearance  of  being  seri- 
ously agitated  herself,  was  that  Anne  must  go,  that  she 
must  go  with  her,  and  that  the  destination  to  which  they 
might  both  betake  themselves  must  be  kept  a  secret  from 
everybody.  1  spare  you  the  recital  of  Mrs.  Todd's  hos- 
pitable remonstrances  and  refusals.  It  ended  in  her  driv- 
ing them  both  to  the  nearest  station,  more  than  three  hours 
since.  She  tried  hard,  on  the  way,  to  get  them  to  speak 
more  plainly;  but  without  success.  And  she  set  them 
down  outside  the  station  door,  so  hurt  and  offended  by  the 
unceremonious  abruptness  of  their  departure  and  their 
unfriendly  reluctance  to  place  the  least  confidence  in  her, 
that  she  drove  away  in  anger,  without  so  much  as  stopping 
to  bid  them  good-bye.  That  is  exactly  what  has  taken 
place.  Search  your  own  memory,  Mr.  Hartright,  and  tell 
me  if  anything  happened  in  the  burial-ground  yesterday 
evening  which  can  at  all  account  for  the  extraordinary 
departure  of  those  two  women  this  morning." 

"  I  should  like  to  account  first.  Miss  Halcombe,  for  the 


108  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

endden  change  in  Anne  Catherick  which  alarmed  them  at 
the  farm-house,  hours  after  she  and  I  had  parted,  and  when 
time  enough  had  elapsed  to  quiet  any  violent  agitation 
that  I  might  have  been  unfortunate  enough  to  cause.  Did 
you  inquire  particularly  about  the  gossip  which  was  going 
ou  in  the  room  when  she  turned  faint?" 

"  Yes.  But  Mrs.  Todd's  household  affairs  seem  to  have 
divided  her  attention  that  evening,  with  the  talk  in  the 
farm-house  parlor.  She  could  only  tell  me  that  it  was 
'  just  the  news  ' — meaning,  1  suppose,  that  they  all  talked 
as  usual  about  each  other." 

My  suggestion  was  acted  on  the  moment  we  returned  to 
the  house.  Miss  Halcombe  led  me  round  to  the  servants' 
offices,  and  we  found  the  girl  in  the  dairy  willi  her  sleeves 
tucked  up  to  her  shoulders,  cleaning  a  large  milk-pan, 
and  singing  blithely  over  her  work. 

"  I  have  brought  this  gentleman  to  see  your  dairy,  Han- 
nah," said  Miss  Halcombe.  "  It  is  one  of  the  sights  of  the 
house,  and  it  always  does  you  credit." 

The  girl  blushed  and  courtesied,  and  said,  sh3dy,  that  she 
hoped  she  always  did  her  best  to  keep  things  neat  and 
clean. 

"  We  have  just  come  from  your  father's,"  Miss  Hal' 
combe  continued.  "  You  were  there  yesterday  evening,  1 
hear;  and  you  found  visitors  at  the  house?" 

"  Yes,  miss." 

'*  One  of  them  was  taken  faint  and  ill,  I  am  told?  1 
suppose  nothing  was  said  or  done  to  frighten  her?  You 
were  not  talkiiig  of  anything  very  terrible,  were  you?"* 

"  Oh,  no,  miss!"  said  the  girl,  laughing.  "  We  were 
only  talking  of  the  news." 

"  Your  sisters  told  you  the  news  at'  Todd's  Corner,  I 
suppose?" 

"  Yes,  miss." 

"  And  you  told  them  the  news  at  Limmerirlge  House?" 

"  Yes,  miss.  And  I'm  quite  sure  nothing  was  said  to 
frighten  the  poor  thing,  for  1  was  talking  when  she  was 
taken  ill.  It  gave  me  quite  a  turn,  miss,  to  see  it,  never 
having  been  taken  faint  myself." 

Before  any  more  questions  could  be  put  to  her,  she  was 
called  away  to  receive  a  basket  of  eggs  at  the  dairy  door. 
As  she  left  us,  1  whispered  to  Miss  Halcombe: 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  lOd 

*'  Ask  her  if  she  happened  to  mention,  last  night,  that 
Tisitors  were  expecttd  at  Limnieridge  House." 

Miss  Halcombe  t-hoived  me,  by  a  look,  that  she  under- 
stood, and  put  the  question  as  soou  as  the  dairy-maid  re- 
turned to  us. 

"Oh,  yes,  miss;  I  mentioned  that,"  said  the  girl,  sim- 
ply. "  The  company  coming,  and  the  accident  to  the 
brindled  cow,  was  all  the  news  1  had  to  take  to  the  farm." 

"  Did  you  mention  names?  Did  you  tell  them  that  Sir 
Percival  Glyde  was  expected  on  Monday?" 

"  Yes,  miss — 1  told  them  Sir  Percival  Glyde  was  com- 
ing. I  hope  there  was  no  harm  in  it;  1  hope  1  didn't  do 
Wrong." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  harm.  Come,  Mr.  Hartright;  Hannah 
will  begin  to  think  us  in  the  way,  if  we  interrupt  her  any 
longer  over  her  work," 

We  stopped  and  looked  at  one  anotherj-the  moment  we 
were  alone  again. 

"  Is  there  any  doubt  in  your  mind,  7ioiv,  Miss  Hal- 
combe?" 

"  Sir  Percival  Glyde  shall  remove  that  doubt,  Mr.  Hart- 
right — or,  Laura  Fairlie  shall  never  be  his  wife." 


XV. 


As  we  walked  round  to  the  front  of  the  house,  a  fly  from 
the  railway  approached  us  along  the  drive.  Miss  Hal- 
combe waited  on  the  door-step  until  the  fly  drew  up;  and 
then  advanced  to  shake  hands  with  an  old  gentleman,  who 
got  out  briskly  the  moment  the  steps  were  let  down.  Mr. 
Gilmore  had  arrived. 

I  looked  at  him,  when  we  were  introduced  to  each  other, 
with  an  interest  and  a  curiosity  which  I  could  hardly  con- 
ceal. This  old  man  was  to  remain  at  Limnieridge  House 
after  I  had  left  it;  he  was  to  hear  Sir  Percival  Giyde's  ex- 
planation and  was  to  give  Miss  Halcombe  the  assistance  of 
hisexperience  in  forming  her  judgment;  he  was  to  wait  until 
the  question  of  the  marriage  was  set  at  resi ;  and  his  hand, 
if  that  question  were  decided  in  the  affirmative,  was  to  draw 
the  settlement  which  bound  Miss  Fairlie  irrevocably  to  her 
engagement.  Even  then,  when  1  knew  nothing  by  com- 
parison with  what  I  know  now,  I  looked  at  the  family  law- 


110  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

yer  with  an  interest  which  I  had  never  before  felt  in  the 
presence  of  any  man  breathing  who  was  a  total  stranger  to 
me. 

In  external  appearance  Mr.  Gilruore  was  the  exact  op- 
posite of  the  conventional  idea  of  an  old  lawyer.  His  com- 
plexion was  florid;  his  white  hair  was  worn  rather  long, 
and  kept  carefully  bi'ushed;  his  black  coat,  waistcoat,  and 
trousers  fitted  him  with  perfect  neatness;  his  white  cravat 
was  carefully  tied;  and  his  lavemler-colored  kid  gloves 
might  have  adorned  the  hands  of  a  fashionable  clergyman, 
without  fear  and  without  reproach.  His  manners  were 
pleasantly  marked  by  the  formal  grace  and  refinement  of 
the  old  school  of  politeness,  quickened  by  the  invigorating 
sharpness  and  readiness  of  a  man  whose  business  in  life 
obliges  him  always  to  keep  his  faculties  in  good  working 
order.  A  sanguine  constitution  and  fair  prospects  to  begin 
with;  a  long  subsequent  career  of  creditable  and  comfort- 
able prosperity;  a  cheerful,  diligent,  widely  respected  old 
age— such  were  the  general  impressions  I  derived  from 
my  introduction  to  Mr.  Gilmore;  and  it  is  but  fair  to  him 
to  add,  that  the  knowledge  I  gained  by  later  and  better 
experience  only  tended  to  confirm  them. 

1  left  the  old  gentleman  and  MissHalcombe  to  enter  the 
house  together,  and  to  talk  of  family  matters  undisturbed 
by  the  restraint  of  a  stranger's  presence.  They  crossed 
the  hall  on  their  way  to  the  drawing-room;  and  I  de- 
scended the  steps  again,  to  wander  about  the  garden 
alone. 

My  hours  were  numbered  at  Limmeridge  House;  my 
departure  the  next  morning  was  irrevocably  settled;  my 
share  in  the  investigation  which  the  anonymous  letter  had 
rendered  necessary,  vvas  at  an  end.  No  harm  could  be 
done  to  any  one  but  myself,  if  Met  my  heart  loose  again, 
for  the  little  time  that  was  left  me,  from  the  cold  cruelty 
of  restraint  which  liccessity  had  forced  me  to  inflict  upon 
it,  and  tnok  my  farewell  of  the  scenes  which  were  associ- 
ated with  the  brief  dream-time  of  my  happiness  and  my 
love. 

I  turned  instinctively  to  the  walk  beneath  my  study  win- 
dow, where  I  had  seen  her  the  evening  before  with  her  little 
dog;  and  followed  the  path  which  her  dear  feet  had  trod- 
den so  often,  till  I  came  to  the  wicket-gate  that  led  into 
her  rose-garden.    The  winter  bareness  spread  drearily  over 


THE     WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  Ill 

it  now.  The  flowers  that  she  had  taught  me  to  distiugiiish 
by  their  names,  the  flowers  that  1  had  taught  her  to  piiint 
from,  were  gone;  and  the  tiny  white  paths  that  led  be- 
tween the  beds  were  damp  and  green  already.  I  went  on 
to  the  avenue  of  trees,  where  we  had  breathed  togclher 
the  warm  fragrance  of  August  evenings;  where  we  had  ad- 
mired together  the  myriad  combinations  of  shade  and  sun- 
light that  dappled  the  ground  at  our  feet.  The  leaves  fell 
about  me  from  the  groaning  branches,  and  the  earthy 
decay  in  the  atmosphere  chilled  me  to  the  bones.  A  little 
further  on,  and  I  was  out  of  the  grounds,  and  following 
'  the  lane  that  wound  gently  upward  to  the  nearest  hills. 
The  old  felled  tree  by  the  way-side,  ou  which  we  had  sat  to 
rest,  was  sodde/i  with  rain;  and  the  tuft  of  ferns  and 
grasses  which  I  had  drawn  for  her,  nestling  under  the 
rough  stone  wall  in  front  of  us,  had  turned  to  a  pool  of 
water,  stagnating  round  an  island  of  draggled  weeds.  I 
gained  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  looked  at  the  view 
which  we  had  so  often  admired  in  the  happier  time.  It 
was  cold  and  barren — it  was  no  longer  the  view  that  1  re- 
membered. The  sunshiue  of  her  presence  was  far  from 
me;  the  charm  of  her  voice  no  longer  murmured  in  my 
ear.  She  had  talked  to  me,  on  the  spot  from  which  I 
now  looked  down,  of  her  father,  who  was  her  last  surviv- 
ing parent;  had  told  me  how  fond  of  each  other  they  had 
been,  and  how  sadly  she  missed  him  still,  when  she  entered 
certain  rooms  in  the  house,  and  when  she  took  up  forgot- 
ten occupations  and  amusements  with  which  he  had  been 
associated.  Was  the  view  that  I  had  seen,  while  listening 
to  those  words,  the  view  that  I  saw  now,  standing  on  the 
hill-top  by  myself?  I  turned,  and  left  it;  1  wound  my  way 
back  again,  over  the  moor,  and  round  the  sand-hills,  down 
to  the  beach.  There  was  the  white  rage  of  the  surf,  and 
the  multitudinous  glory  of  the  leaping  waves — but  where 
was  the  place  ou  which  she  had  once  drawn  idle  figures 
with  her  parasol  in  the  sand;  the  place  where  we  had  sat 
together,  while  she  talked  to  me  about  myself  and  my 
home,  while  she  asked  me  a  woman's  minutely  observant 
questions  about  my  mother  and  my  sister,  and  innocently 
wondered  whether  I  should  ever  leave  my  lonely  chambers 
and  have  a  wife  and  a  house  of  my  own?  Wind  and  wave 
had  long  since  smoothed  out  the  trace  of  her  which  she  had 
left  iu  those  marks  ou  the  sand.     I  looked  over  the  wide 


112  THE    WOMAN     IN     WHITE. 

monotony  of  the  sea-side  prospect,  and  the  place  in  which 
vre  two  had  idled  awa}'  the  suimy  hours  was  as  lost  to  me 
ns  if  I  had  never  known  it,  as  strange  to  me  as  if  I  stood 
already  on  a  foreign  shore. 

The  empty  silence  of  the  beach  struck  cold  to  my  heart. 
1  returned  to  the  house  and  the  garden,  where  traces  were 
left  to  speak  of  her  at  every  turn. 

On  the  west  terrace-walk  1  met  Mr.  Gilmore.  He  was 
evidently  in  search  of  me,  for  he  quickened  his  pace  when 
we  caught  sight  of  each  other.  The  state  of  my  spirits 
little  fitted  nie  for  the  society  of  a  stranger.  But  the 
meeting  was  inevitable;  and  I  resigned  myself  to  make  the 
best  of  it. 

"  You  are  the  very  person  1  wanted  to  see,"  said  the  old 
gentleman.  "  I  had  two  words  to  say  to  you,  my  dear  sir; 
and,  if  you  have  no  objection,  1  will  avail  myself  of  the 
present  opportunity.  To  put  it  plainly,  Miss  Halcombe  and 
1  have  been  talking  over  family  aifairs — affairs  which  are 
the  cause  of  my  being  here — and,  in  the  course  of  our  con- 
versation, she  was  naturally  led  to  tell  me  of  this  unpleas- 
ant matter  connected  with  the  anonymous  letter,  and  of  the 
share  which  you  have  most  creditably  and  properly  taken 
in  the  proceedings  so  far.  That  share,  I  quite  understand, 
gives  you  an  interest  which  you  might  not  otherwise  have 
felt,  in  knowing  that  the  future  management  of  the  in- 
vestigation, which  you  have  begun,  will  be  placed  in  safe 
hands.  My  dear  sir,  make  yourself  quite  easy  on  that 
point — it  will  be  placed  in  mij  hands." 

"  You  are  in  every  way,  Mr.  Gilmore,  much  fitter  to 
advise  and  to  act  in  the  matter  than  I  am.  Is  it  an  indis- 
cretion, on  my  part,  to  ask  if  you  have  decided  yet  on  a 
course  of  proceeding?" 

"  So  far  as  it  is  possible  to  decide,  Mr.  Hartright,  I  have 
decided.  I  mean  to  send  a  copy  of  the  letter,  accompanied 
by  a  statement  of  the  circumstances,  to  Sir  Percival  Glyde's 
solicitor  in  London,  with  whom  I  have  some  acquaintance. 
The  letter  itself  1  sluiU  keep  here,  to  show  to  Sir  Percival 
as  soon  as  he  arrives.  The  tracing  of  the  two  women,  I 
have  already  provitled  for,  by  sending  one  of  Mr.  Fairlie's 
servants — a  confidenlial  person — vO  the  station  to  make  in- 
quiries: thy  man  has  his  money  and  his  directions,  and  he 
will  follow  the  women  in  the  event  of  his  finding  any  clew. 
This  is  all  that  can  be  done  uatil  Sir  percival  comes  oa 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  113 

Monday.  I  have  no  doubt  myself  that  every  explanation 
which  can  be  expected  from  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of 
honor,  he  will  readily  give.  Sir  Percival  stands  very  high, 
■sir — an  eminent  position,  a  reputation  above  suspicion — 1 
feel  quite  easy  about  results;  (^uite  easy,  I  am  rejoiced  to 
assure  you.  Things  of  this  sort  happen  constantly  in  my 
'■xperience.  Anonymous  letters — unfortunate  woman — sad 
siaie  of  society.  I  don't  deny  that  there  are  peculiar  com- 
plications in  this  case;  but  the  case  itself  is,  most  unhap- 
pily, common — common. " 

"I  am  afiaid,  Mr.  Gilmore,  I  have  the  misfortune  to 
differ  from  you  in  the  view  I  take  of  the  case." 

"Just  so,  my  dear  sir — just  so.  I  am  an  old  man;  and 
I  take  the  practical  view.  You  are  a  young  man;  and  you 
take  the  romantic  view.  Let  us  not  dispute  about  our 
views.  I  live,  professionally,  in  an  atni'  sphere  of  disputa- 
tion, Mr.  Hartright;  and  I  am  only  too  glad  to  escape 
from  it,  as  I  am  escaping  here.  We  will  waic  for  events 
— yes,  yes,  yes;  we  will  wait  for  events.  Charming  place, 
this.  Good  shooting?  Probably  not — none  of  Mr.  tan-lie's 
land  is  preserved,  1  think.  Charming  place,  though;  and 
delightful  people.  You  draw  and  paint,  1  hear,  Mr. 
Hartright?     Enviable  accomplishments.     What  style?" 

We  dropped  into  general  conversation — or,  rather,  Mr. 
Gilmore  talked,  and  1  listened.  My  attention  was  far  from 
him,  and  from  the  topics  on  which  he  discoursed  so 
fluently.  The  solitary  walk  of  the  last  two  hours  had 
wrought  its  effect  on  me — it  had  set  the  idea  in  my  mind 
of  hastening  my  departure  from  Limmeridge  flouse.  Why 
should  I  prolong  the  hard  trial  of  saying  farewell  by  one 
unnecessary  minute?  What  further  service  was  required 
of  me  by  any.  one?  There  was  no  useful  purpose  to  be 
served  by  my  stay  in  Cumberland;  there  was  no  restriction 
of  time  in  the  permission  to  leave  which  my  emj^loyer  had 
granted  to  me.      Why  not  end  it,  there  and  then? 

1  determined  to  end  it.  There  were  some  hours  of  day- 
light still  left — there  was  no  reason  why  my  journey  back 
to  London  should  not  begin  on  that  afternoon.  J  made  the 
first  civil  excuse  that  occurred  to  me  for  leaving  Mr.  Gd- 
more;  and  returned  at  once  to  the  house. 

On  my  way  up  to  my  own  room,  I  met  Miss  ffalcomb^'  on 
the  stairs.     She  saw,  by  the  hurry  of  my  movemeiits  and 


114  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

the  change  in  my  manner,  that  1  had  some  new  purpose 
in  view;  and  asked  what  had  happened. 

I  told  her  the  reasons  which  induced  me  to  think  of  hast- 
ening my  departure,  exactly  as  I  have  told  them  here. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  earnestly  and  kindly,  "  leave  us 
like  a  friend;  b^yak  bread  with  us  once  more.  Stay  here 
and  dine;  stay  here  and  help  us  spend  our  last  evenings 
with  you  as  happily,  as  like  our  first  evenings,  as  we  can 
It  is  my  invitation?  Mrs.  Vesey's  invitation — "  She  hesr- 
tated  a  little,  and  then  added,  "  Laura's  invitation  as 
well." 

1  promised  to  remain.  God  knows  I  had  no  wish  to 
leave  even  the  shadow  of  a  sorrowful  impression  with  any 
one  of  them. 

My  own  room  was  the  best  place  for  me  till  the  dinner- 
bell  rang.    1  waited  here  till  it  was  time  to  go  down  stairs. 

1  had  not  spoken  to  Miss  Fairlie — 1  had  not  even  seen 
her — all  that  day.  The  first  meeting  with  her,  when  i 
entered  the  drawing-room,  was  a  hard  trial  to  her  self- 
control  and  to  mine.  She,  too,  had  done  her  best  to  make 
our  last  evening  renew  the  golden  by-gone  time— the  time 
that  could  never  come  again.  She  had  put  on  the  dress 
which  I  used  to  admire  more  than  any  other  that  she 
possessed — a  dark-blue  silk,  trimmed  quaintly  and  prettily 
with  old-fashioned  lace;  she  came  forward  to  meet  me 
with  her  former  readiness;  she  gave  me  her  hand  with  the 
frank,  innocent  good-will  of  happier  days.  The  cold  fin- 
gers that  trembled  round  mine;  the  pale  cheeks  with  a 
bright  red  spot  burning  in  the  midst  of  them;  the  faint 
smile  that  struggled  to  live  on  her  lips  and  died  away  from 
them  while  I  looked  at  it,  told  me  at  what  sacrifice  of 
herself  her  outward  composure  was  maintained.  My  heart 
could  take  her  no  closer  to  me,  or  I  should  have  loved  her 
then  as  I  had  never  loved  her  yet. 

Mr.  Gilmore  was  a  great  assistance  to  us.  He  was  in  high 
good-humor,  and  he  led  the  conversation  with  unflagging 
spirit.  Miss  Halcombe  seconded  him  resolutely;  and  1  did 
all  I  could  to  follow  her  example.  The  kind  blue  eyes 
whose  slightest  changes  of  expression  I  had  learned  to  in- 
terpret so  well,  looked  at  me  appealingly  when  we  first  sat 
down  to  the  table.  Help  my  sister — the  sweet  anxious  face 
seemed  to  say — help  ruy  sister  and  you  will  help  uie. 

We  got  through  the  dinner,  to  all  outward  appearance  at 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  115 

least,  happily  enough.  When  the  ladies  had  risen  from 
table,  and  Mr.  Gil  more  and  I  were  left  alone  in  the 
diuing-room,  a  new  interest  presented  itself  to  occupy  our 
attention,  and  to  give  me  an  opportunity  of  quieting  my- 
self by  a  few  minutes  of  needful  and  welcome  silence.  The 
servant  who  had  been  dispatched  to  trace  Anne  Cath- 
erick  and  Mrs.  Clements  returned  with  his  report,  and 
was  shown  into  the  diuing-room  immediately. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Gilmore,  "what  have  you  found 
out?" 

"  1  have  founO  out^  sir,"  answered  the  man,  "  that 
both  the  women  took  'tickets  at  our  station  here,  for  Car- 
lisle." 

"  You  went  to  Carlisle,  of  course,  when  you  heard 
that?" 

"  I  did,  sir;  but  1  am  sorry  to  say  I  could  find  no  fur- 
ther trace  of  them." 

"  You  inquired  at  the  railway?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  at  the  different  inns?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  you  left  the  statement  I  wrote  for  you,  at  the 
police  station?" 

"Idid,  sir." 

"  Well,  my  friend,  you  have  done  all  you  could,  and  1 
have  done  all  I  could;  and  there  the  matter  must  rest 
until  further  notice.  VV^e  have  played  our  trump  cards, 
Mr.  Hartright,"  continued  the  old  gentleman,  when  the 
servant  had  withdrawn.  "  For  the  present,  at  least,  the 
women  have  outmaneuvered  us;  and  our  only  resource, 
now,  is  to  wait  till  Sir  Percival  Clyde  comes  here  on  Mon- 
day next.  Won't  you  fill  your  glass  again?  Good  bottle 
of  port,  that — sound,  substantial,  old  wine.  I  have  got 
better  in  my  own  cellar,  though." 

We  returned  to  the  drawing-room — the  room  in  which 
the  happiest  evenings  of  my  life  had  been  passed;  the 
room  which,  after  this  last  night,  I  was  never  to  see  again. 
It^  aspect  was  altered  since  the  days  had  shortened  and  the 
weather  grown  cold.  The  glass  doors  on  the  terrace  side 
were  closed,  and  hidden  by  thick  curtains.  Instead  of 
the  soft  twilight  obscurity,  in  which  we  used  to  sit,  the 
bright  radiant  glow  of  lamp-light  now  dazzled  my  eyes. 
All  was  changed — iu-doors  and  out,  all  was  changed 


lis  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Miss  Halcombe  and  Mr.  Gilmorc  sat  down  together  at 
the  card-table;  Mrs.  Vesey  took  her  custonian^  chair. 
There  was  no  restraint  on  tlie  tlie  disposal  of  their  even- 
ing; and  1  felt  the  restraint  on  the  disposal  of  mine  all  the 
more  painfully  from  observing  it.  1  saw  Miss  Fairlie  lin- 
gering near  the  music-stand.  The  time  had  been  when  1 
might  have  joined  her  there.  1  waited  irresolutely — 1 
knew  neither  where  to  go  or  what  to  do  next.  She  cast 
one  quick  glance  at  me,  took  a  piece  of  music  suddenly 
from  the  stand,  and  came  toward  me  of  her  own  accord. 

"  Shall  I  play  some  of  those  little  melodies  of  Mozart's, 
which  you  used  to  like  so  much?"  she  asked,  opening 
the  music  nervously,  and  looking  down  at  it  while  she  spoke. 

Before  I  could  thank  her,  she  hastened  to  the  pian^. 
The  chair  near  it,  which  1  had  always  been  accustomed  t  > 
occupy,  stood  empty.  She  struck  a  few  chords — then 
glanced  round  at  me — then  looked  back  again  at  her 
music. 

"  Won't  you  take  your  old  phuc?"  she  said,  speaking 
very  abrujitly,  and  in  very  low  tones, 

'*  1  may  take  it  on  the  last  night,"  I  answered. 

She  did  not  reply:  she  kept  her  attention  riveted  on  the 
music — music  which  she  knew  by  memory,  which  she  had 
played  over  and  over  again,  in  former  times,  without  the 
book.  I  only  knew  that  she  had  heard  me,  I  only  knew 
that  she  was  aware  of  my  being  close  to  her,  by  seeing  the 
red  spot  on  the  cheek  thai  was  nearest  to  me,  fade  out, 
and  the  face  grow  pale  all  over. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  you  are  going,"  she  said,  her  voice 
almost  sinking  to  a  whisper;  her  eyes  looking  more  and 
moreiuteutly  at  the  music;  her  fingers  flying  over  the  keys 
of  the  piano  with  a  strange  feverish  energy  which  I  had 
never  noticed  in  her  before. 

"  1  shall  remember  those  kind  words,  Miss  Fairlie,  long 
after  to-morrow  has  come  and  gone." 

The  paleness  grew  whiter  on  her  face,  and  she  turned  it 
farther  away  from  me. 

"  Don't  speak  of  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "  Let  tho 
music  speak  to  us  of  to-night,  in  a  happier  language  than 
ours." 

Her  lips  trembled — a  faint  sigh  fluttered  from  them, 
which  she  tried  vainly  to  suppress.  Her  fingers  wavend 
on  the  piano;  she  struck  a  false  note;  confused  herself  in 


THR    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  11? 

trying  to  set  it  riglit;  and  dropped  her  liands  angrily  on 
her  lap.  Miss  Halcombe  and  Mr.  Gil  more  looked  up  in 
astonishment  from  the  card-table  at  which  they  were 
playing.  Even  Mrs.  Vesey,  dozing  in  her  chair,  woke  at 
the  sudden  cessation  of  the  music,  and  inquired  what  had 
happened. 

"  You  play  at  whist,  Mr.  Hartright?'^  asked  Miss  Hal- 
combe, with  her  eyes  directed  significantly  at  the  place  I 
occupied. 

1  knew  what  she  meant;  I  knew  she  was  right;  and  1 
rose  at  once  to  go  to  the  card-table.  As  I  left  the  piano, 
Miss  Fairlie  turned  a  page  of  the  music,  and  touched  the 
keys  again  with  a  surer  hand. 

"1  (vill  play  it,"  she  said,  striking  the  notes  almost 
passionately.     "  I  7viU  play  it  on  the  last  night." 

"  Come,  Mrs.  Vesey,"  said  Miss  Halcombe;  "  Mr.  Gil- 
more  and  I  are  tired  of  ecarte — come  and  be  Mr.  Hart- 
right's  partner  at  whist. " 

The  old  lawyer  smiled  satirically.  His  had  been  the  win- 
ning hand;  and  he  had  just  turned  up  a  king.  He  evi- 
dently attributed  Miss  Halcombe's  abrupt  change  in  the 
card-table  arrangements  to  a  lady's  inability  to  play  the 
losing  game. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  passed  without  a  word  or  a  look 
from  her.  She  kept  her  place  at  the  piano;  and  1  kept 
mine  at  the  card-table.  She  played  unintermittingly — 
played  as  if  the  music  was  her  only  refuge  from  herself. 
Sometimes  her  fingers  touched  the  notes  with  a  lingering 
fondness,  a  soft,  plaintive,  dying  tenderness,  unutterably 
beautiful  and  mournful  to  hear — sometimes  they  faltered 
and  failed  her,  or  hurried  over  the  instrument  mechan- 
ically, as  if  their  task  was  a  burden  to  them.  But  still, 
change  and  waver  as  they  might  in  the  expression  they 
imparted  to  the  music,  their  resolution  to  play  never 
faltered.  She  only  rose  from  the  piano  when  we  all  rose 
to  say  good-night. 

Mrs.  Vesey  was  the  nearest  to  the  door,  and  the  first  to 
shake  hands  with  me. 

"  I  shall  not  see  you  again,  Mr.  Hartright,"  said  the  old 
lady.  "  I  am  truly  sorry  you  are  going  away.  You  have 
been  very  kind  and  attentive;  and  an  old  woman,  like  me, 
feels  kindness  and  attention.  I  wisli  yru  happy,  sir — 1  wish 
you  a  kind  good-bye." 


118  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Mr.  Gilmore  came  uext. 

"  I  hope  we  shall  have  a  future  opportunity  of  bettering 
our  acquaintance,  Mr.  Hartright.  You  quite  understand 
about  Lliat  little  matter  of  business  being  safe  in  my  hands? 
Yes,  yes,  of  course.  Bless  me,  how  cold  it  is!  Don't  let 
me  keep  you  at  the  door.  Bon  voyage,  my  dear  sir — bon 
voyage,  as  the  French  say." 

Miss  Halcombe  followed. 

"  Half  past  seven  to-morrow  morning,"  she  said;  then 
added,  in  a  whisper,  "  I  have  heard  and  seen  more  than 
you  think.  Your  conduct  to-night  has  made  me  your 
friend  for  life." 

Miss  Fairlie  came  last.  1  could  not  trust  myself  to  look 
at  her,  when  I  took  her  hand,  and  when  1  thought  of  the 
next  morning. 

"  My  departure  must  be  a  very  early  one,"  1  said.  "  I 
shall  be  gone  Miss  Fairlie,  before  you — " 

"No,  no,"  she  interposed,  hastily;  "not  before  I  am 
out  of  my  room.  1  shall  be  down  to  breakfast  with 
Marian.  1  am  not  so  ungrateful,  not  so  forgetful  of  the 
past  three  mouths—" 

Her  voice  failed  her;  her  hand  closed  gently  round  mine 
—  I  hen  dropped  it  suddenly.  Before  I  could  say  "  Good- 
night," she  was  gone. 

Tiie  end  comes  fast  to  meet  me — comes  inevitably,  as  the 
light  of  the  last  morning  came  at  Limmeridge  House. 

It  was  barely  half  past  seven  when  I  went  down  stairs — 
but  I  found  them  both  at  the  breakfast-table  waiting  for 
me.  In  the  chill  air,  in  the  dim  light,  in  the  gloomy  morn- 
ing silence  of  the  house,  we  three  sat  down  together,  and 
tried  to  eat,  tried  to  talk.  The  struggle  to  preserve  ap- 
pearances was  hopeless  and  useless;  and  I  rose  to  end  it. 

As  I  held  out  my  hand,  as  Miss  Halcombe,  who  was 
nearest  to  me,  took  it.  Miss  Fairlie  turned  away  suddenly, 
and  hurried  from  the  room. 

"  Better  so,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  when  the  door  had 
closed — "  better  so,  for  you  and  for  her." 

I  waited  a  moment  before  I  could  speak — it  was  hard 
10  lose  her,  without  a  parting  word,  or  a  parting  look.  I 
controlled  myself;  1  tried  to  take  leave  of  Miss  Halcombe 
in  fitting  terms;  but  all  the  farewell  words  I  would  fain 
have  spoken,  dwindled  to  one  sentence. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHlTti.  Il9 

'*  Have  I  deserved  that  you  should  write  to  me?"  was 
all  I  could  say. 

"  You  have  nobly  deserved  everything  that  1  can  do  for 
you,  as  long  as  we  both  live.  VV'hatever  the  end  is,  you 
shall  know  it. " 

"  And  if  1  can  ever  be  of  help  again,  at  any  future  time, 
long  after  the  memory  of  my  presumption  and  my  folly  is 
forgotten — " 

1  could  add  no  more.  My  voice  faltered,  my  eyes  moist- 
ened, in  spite  of  me. 

She  caught  me  by  both  hands — she  pressed  them  with 
the  strong,  steady  grasp  of  a  man — her  dark  eyes  glittered 
— her  brov/n  complexion  flushed  deep — the  force  and  en- 
ergy of  her  face  glowed  and  grew  beautiful  with  the  pure 
inner  light  of  her  generosity  and  her  pity. 

"  I  will  trust  you  -if  ever  the  time  comes,  I  will  trust 
you  as  my  friend  and //er  friend:  as  w// brother  and /^er 
brother."  She  stopped,  drew  me  nearer  to  her — the 
fearless,  noble  creature — touched  my  forehead,  sister-like, 
with  her  lips;  and  called  me  by  my  Christian  name. 
"  God  bless  you,  Walter!"  she  said.  "  Wait  here  alona, 
and  compose  yourself — I  had  better  not  stay,  for  both  our 
^akes;  I  had  better  see  you  go  from  the  balcony  upstairs." 

She  left  the  room.  I  turned  away  toward  the  window, 
v/here  nothing  faced  me  but  the  lonely  autumn  landscape — 
1  turned  away  to  master  myself,  before  I,  too,  left  the  room 
in  my  turn,  and  left  it  forever. 

A  minute  passed — it  could  hardly  have  been  more — when 
I  heard  the  door  open  again  softly,  and  the  rustling  of  a 
woman's  dress  on  the  carpet  moved  toward  me.  My  heart 
beat  violently  as  I  turned  round.  Miss  Fairlie  was  ap- 
proaching me  from  the  further  end  of  the  room. 

Siie  stopped  and  hesitated  when  our  eyes  met,  and  when 
she  saw  that  we  were  alone.  Then,  with  that  courage 
which  women  lose  so  often  in  the  small  emergency,  and  so 
'seldom  in  the  great,  she  came  on  nearer  to  me,  strangely 
pale  and  strangely  quiet,  drawing  one  hand  after  her  along 
the  table  by  which  she  walked,  and  holding  something  at 
her  side,  in  the  other,  which  was  hidden  by  the  folds  of  her 
dress. 

"1  only  went  into  the  drawing-room,"  she  said,  "  to 
look  for  this.  It  may  remind  you  of  your  visit  here,  and 
of  the  friends  you  leave  behind  you.      You  told  mft  I  had 


iso 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 


improved  very  much  whea  I  did  it — and  I  though  yoa 
might  like  it—" 

Slie  turned  her  head  away,  and  offered  me  a  little  sketch 
drawn  throughout  hy  her  own  pencil,  of  the  stimmer-house 
in  which  we  had  first  met.  I'he  paper  trembled  in  her 
hand  as  she  held  it  out  to  me — trembled  in  mine,  as  1  took 
it  from  her. 

1  was  afraid  to  say  what  I  feit — I  only  answered:  "  It 
shall  never  leave  me:  all  my  life-long  it  shall  be  ihe  treas- 
ure that  1  prize  most.  1  am  very  grateful  for  it — very 
grateful  to  you,  for  not  letting  me  go  away  without  bidding 
you  good-bye." 

"  Oh!"  she  said,  innocently,  "  how  could  T  let  you  go, 
after  we  have  passed  so  many  hapjjy  days  together!" 

"  Those  days  may  never  return.  Miss  Fairlie — my  way 
of  life  and  yours  are  very  far  apart.  But  if  a  time  siiould 
come,  when  the  devotion  of  my  whole  heart  and  soul  and 
strength  will  give  you  a  moment's  happiness,  or  spare  you 
a  moment's  sorrow,  will  you  try  to  remember  the  poor 
drawing-master  who  has  taught  you?  Miss  Halcombe  has 
promised  to  trust  me — will  you  promise,  too?" 

The  farewell  sadness  in  the  kind  blue  eyes  shone  dimly 
through  her  gathering  tears. 

"  I  promise  it,"  she  said,  in  broken  tones.  *'  Oh,  don't 
look  at  me  like  that!     1  promise  it  with  all  my  heart." 

I  ventured  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  held  out  my  hand. 

"  You  have  many  friends  who  love  you.  Miss  Fairlie. 
Your  happy  future  is  the  dear  object  of  many  hopes.  May 
I  say,  at  parting,  that  it  is  the  dear  object  of  tny  hopes 
too?" 

The  tears  flowed  fast  dov/n  her  cheeks.  She  rested  one 
trembling  hand  on  the  table  to  steady  herself,  while  she 
gave  me  the  other.  I  took  it  in  mine — I  held  it  fast.  My 
head  drooped  over  it,  my  tears  fell  on  it,  my  lips  pressed  it 
— not  in  love;  oh,  not  in  love,  at  that  last  moment,  but  in 
the  agony  and  the  self-abandonment  of  despair. 

"  For  God's  sake,  leave  me!"  she  said,  faintly. 

The  confession  of  her  heart's  secret  burst  from  her  in 
those  pleading  words.  I  had  no  right  to  hear  them,  no 
right  to  answer  them:  they  were  the  words  that  banished 
me,  in  the  name  of  her  sacred  weakness,  from  the  room. 
It,  fvas  all  over.  J  dropped  her  hand;  I  said  no  more. 
The  biiudiug  tears  shut  her  out  from  my  eyes,  and  I  daahed 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  121 

them  away  to  look  at  her  for  the  last  time.  One  look  as 
she  sauk  into  a  chair,  as  her  arms  fell  on  the  table,  as  her 
fair  head  dropped  on  them  wearily.  One  farewell  look; 
and  the  door  had  closed  upon  her — the  great  gulf  of  sepa- 
ration had  opened  between  us — the  image  of  Laura  Fairlie 
was  a  memory  of  the  past  already. 


The  Story  continued  hy  Vincent  Gilmore,  of  Chancery 
Lane,  Solicitor. 


1  write  these  lines  at  the  request  of  my  friend,  Mr. 
Walter  Hartright.  They  are  intended  to  convey  a  descrip- 
tion of  certain  events  which  seriously  affected  Miss  Fairlie's 
interests,  and  which  took  place  after  the  period  of  Mr. 
Hartright's  departure  from  Limmeridge  House. 

There  is  no  need  for  me  to  say  whether  my  own  opinion 
does  or  does  not  sanction  the  disclosure  of  the  remarkable 
family  story,  of  which  my  narrative  forms  an  important  com- 
ponent part.  Mr.  Hartright  has  taken  that  responsibility  on 
himself;  and  circumstances  yet  to  be  related  will  show 
that  he  has  amply  earned  the  right  to  do  so,  if  he  chooses 
to  exercise  it.  The  plan  he  has  adopted  for  presenting  the 
story  to  others,  in  the  most  truthful  and  most  vivid  man- 
ner, requires  that  it  should  be  told,  at  each  successive  stage 
in  the  march  of  events,  by  the  persons  who  were  directly 
concerned  in  those  events  at  the  tmie  of  their  occurrence. 
My  appearance  here,  as  narrator,  is  the  necessary  conse- 
quence of  this  arrangement.  I  was  present  during  the 
sojou'-n  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde  in  Cumberland,  and  was  per- 
sonally concerned  in  one  important  result  of  his  short  resi- 
dence under  Mr.  Fairlie's  roof.  It  is  my  duty,  therefore, 
to  add  these  new  links  to  the  chain  of  events,  and  to  take 
up  the  chain  itself  at  the  point  where,  for  the  present  only, 
Mr.  Hartright  has  dropped  it. 

1  arrived  at  Limmeridge  House  on  Friday,  the  second  of 
November. 

My  object  was  to  remain  at  Mr.  Fairlie's  until  the  arrival 
of  Sir  Percival  Glyde.  If  that  event  led  to  the  appoint- 
ment of  any  given  day  for  Sir  Percival's  union  with  Miss 


122  THE    WOMAN    IN    V^HITE. 

Fair  lie,  I  was  to  take  the  necessary  instructions  back  with 
nie  to  Loudon,  and  to  occupy  mj'self  in  drawing  the  lady's 
inarriage-settlement. 

On  the  Friday  I  was  not  favored  by  Mr.  Fair  lie  with  an 
interview.  He  had  been,  or  had  fancied  himself  to  be,  an 
invalid  for  years  past;  and  he  was  not  well  enough  to  re- 
ceive me.  Miss  Halcombe  was  the  first  member  of  the 
family  whom  I  saw.  She  met  me  at  the  house  door;  and 
introduced  me  to  Mr.  Hartright,  who  had  been  staying  at 
Limmeridge  for  some  time  past. 

I  did  not  see  Miss  Fairiie  until  later  in  the  day,  at  din- 
ner-time. She  was  not  looking  well,  and  I  was  sorry  to 
observe  it.  She  is  a  sweet  lovable  girl,  as  amiable  and  at- 
tentive to  every  one  about  her  as  her  excellent  mother  used 
to  be — though,  personally  speaking,  she  takes  after  her 
father.  Mrs.  Fairiie  had  dark  eyes  and  hair;  and  her 
elder  daughter.  Miss  Halcombe,  strongly  reminds  me  of 
her.  Miss  Fairiie  played  to  us  in  the  evening — not  so  well 
«8  usual,  1  thought.  We  had  a  rubber  at  whist;  a  mere 
profanation,  so  far  as  play  was  concerned,  of  that  noble 
game.  I  had  been  favorably  impressed  by  Mr.  Kartright 
on  our  first  introduction  to  one  another;  but  I  soon  discov- 
ered that  he  was  not  free  from  the  social  failings  incidental 
to  his  age.  There  are  three  things  that  none  of  the  young 
men  of  the  present  generation  can  do.  They  can't  sit 
over  their  wine;  they  can't  play  at  whist;  and  they  can't 
pay  a  lady  a  compliment.  Mr.  Hartright  was  no  excep- 
tion to  the  general  rule.  Otherwise,  even  in  those  early 
days  and  on  that  short  acquaintance,  he  struck  me  as  being 
a  modest  and  gentleman-like  young  man. 

So  the  Friday  passed.  I  say  nothing  about  the  more 
serious  matter  which  engaged  my  attention  on  that  day — 
the  anonymous  letter  to  Miss  Fairiie;  the  measure  I  though 
it  right  to  adopt  when  the  matter  was  mentioned  to  me; 
and  the  conviction  I  entertained  that  every  possible  ex- 
planation of  the  circumstances  would  be  readdy  afforded 
by  Sir  PercivaJ  Glyde,  having  all  been  fully  noticed,  as  I 
understand,  in  ii;e  narrative  which  precedes  this. 

On  the  Saturday,  Mr.  Hartright  had  left  before  I  got 
down  to  break fcisi.  Miss  Fairiie  kept  her  room  all  day; 
and  Miss  Halcombe  appeared  to  me  to  be  out  of  spirits. 
The  house  was  not  what  it  used  to  be  in  the  time  of  Mr, 


THK    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  123 

and  Mrs.  Philip  Fairlie.  I  took  a  walk  by  myself  in  the 
forenoon:  and  looked  about  at  some  of  the  places  which  I 
first  saw  when  I  was  staying  at  Limmeridge  to  transact 
family  business,  more  than  thirty  years  since.  They  were 
not  what  they  used  to  be  either. 

At  twc  o'clock  Mr.  Fairlie  sent  to  say  he  was  well 
enough  to  see  me.  He  had  not  altered,  at  auy  rate,  since 
1  first  knew  him.  His  talk  was  to  the  same  purpose  as  usual 
— all  about  himself  and  his  ailments,  his  wonderful  coins, 
and  his  matchless  Rembrandt  etchings.  The  moment  I 
tried  to  speak  of  the  business  that  had  brought  me  to  his 
house,  he  shut  his  eyes  and  said  1  "  upset  "  him.  1  per- 
sisted in  upsetting  him  by  returning  again  and  again  to  the 
subject.  All  1  could  ascertain  was  that  he  looked  on  his 
niece's  marriage  as  a  settled  thing,  that  her  father  had  sanc- 
tioned it,  that  he  sanctioned  it  himself,  that  it  was  a  desir- 
able marriage,  and  that  he  should  personally  rejoice  when 
the  worry  of  it  was  over.  As  to  the  settlements,  if  I  would 
consult  his  niece,  and  afterward  dive  as  deeply  as  1  plea.ed 
into  my  own  knowledge  of  the  family  affairs,  and  get 
everything  ready,  and  limit  his  share  in  the  business,  as 
guardian,  to  saying,  Yes,  at  the  right  moment — why  of 
course  he  would  meet  my  views,  and  everybody  else's 
views,  with  inflnite  pleasure.  In  the  meantime,  there  I 
saw  him,  a  helpless  sufferer,  confined  to  his  room.  Did  I 
think  he  looked  as  if  he  wanted  teasing?  No.  Then  why 
tease  him? 

I  might,  perhaps,  have  been  a  little  astonished  at  this 
extraordinary  absence  of  all  self-assertion  on  Mr.  Fairlie's 
part,  in  the  character  of  guardian,  if  my  knowledge  of 
thy  family  affairs  had  not  been  sufficient  to  remind  me  that 
he  was  a  single  man,  and  that  he  had  nothing  more  than 
a  life  interest  in  the  Limmeridge  property.  As  matters 
stood,  therefore,  1  was  neither  surprised  nor  disappointed 
at  the  result  of  the  interview.  Mr.  Fairlie  had  simply 
justified  my  expectations — and  there  was  an  end  of  it. 

Sunday  was  a  dull  dav,  out  of  doors  and  in.  A  letter 
arrived  for  me  from  Sir  Percival  Glyde's  solicitor,  acknowl- 
edgiiig  the  receipt  of  my  copy  of  the  anonymous  letter,  and 
my  accompanying  statement  of  the  case.  Miss  Fairlie 
joined  us  in  the  afternoon,  looking  pale  and  depressed, 
and  altogether  unlike  herself.  I  had  some  talk  with  her, 
and  ventured  on  a  delicate  allusion  to  Sir  Percival.     Sh;* 


Vli  THE    WOMAN    IK    WHITE. 

listened,  and  said  nothing.  All  other  subjects  she  pursued 
willingly;  but  this  subject  she  allowed  to  drop.  I  began 
to  doubt  whether  she  might  not  be  repenting  of  her  engage- 
ment— just  as  young  ladies  often  li^!.  when  repentance  comes 
too  late. 

On  Monday  Sir  Percival  Clyde  arrived. 

I  found  him  to  be  a  most  prepossessing  man,  so  far  as 
manners  and  appearance  were  concerned.  He  looked 
rather  older  than  I  had  expected;  his  head  being  bald  over 
tbe  forehead,  and  his  face  somewhat  marked  and  worn. 
But  his  movements  were  as  active  and  his  spirits  as  high  as 
a  young  man's.  His  meeting  with  Miss  Halcombe  was 
delightfully  hearty  and  unaffected;  and  his  reception  of 
me,  upon  my  being  presented  to  him,  was  so  easy  and 
pleasant  that  we  got  on  together  like  old  friends.  Miss 
Fairlie  was  not  with  us  when  he  arrived,  but  she  entered 
the  room  about  ten  minutes  afterward.  Sir  Percival  rose 
and  paid  his  compliments  with  perfect  grace.  His  evident 
concern  on  seeing  the  change  for  the  worse  in  the  young 
lady's  looks  was  expressed  with  a  mixture  of  tenderness 
and  respect,  with  an  unassuming  delicacy  of  tone,  voice, 
and  manner,  which  did  equal  credit  to  his  good-breeding 
and  his  good  sense.  I  was  rather  surprised,  under  these 
circumstances^  to  see  that  Miss  Fairlie  continued  to  be 
constrained  and  uneasy  in  his  presence,  and  that  she  took 
the  first  opportunity  of  leaving  the  room  again.  Sir  Per- 
cival neither  noticed  the  restraint  in  her  reception  of  him, 
nor  her  sudden  withdrawal  from  our  society.  He  had  )iot 
obtruded  his  attentions  on  her  while  she  was  present,  and 
he  did  not  embarass  Miss  Halcombe  by  any  allusion  to 
her  departure  when  she  was  gone.  His  tact  and  taste  were 
never  at  fault  on  this  or  on  any  other  occasion  while  I  was 
m  his  company  at  Limmeridge  House. 

As  soon  as  Miss  Fairlie  had  left  the  room,  he  spared  us 
all  embarrassment  on  the  subject  of  the  anonymous  letter, 
by  adverting  to  it  of  his  own  accord.  He  had  stopped  in 
London  on  his  way  from  Hampshire;  had  seen  his  solic- 
itor; had  read  the  documents  forwarded  by  me;  and  had 
traveled  on  to  Cumberland,  anxious  to  satisfy  our  minds 
by  the  speediest  and  fullest  explanation  that  words  could 
convey.  On  hearing  him  exi)ress  himself  to  this  effect,  I 
offered  him  the  original  k-iirr.  uhicli  1  had  kept  for  his 
inspection.     He  thanki-d  m.,  and  declined  tj  look  at  it; 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  135 

saying  that  he  had  seen  the  copy,  and  that  he  was  quite 
willing  to  leave  tiie  original  in  our  hands. 

The  statement  itself,  on  which  he  iuunediately  entered, 
was  as  simple  and  satisfactory  as  1  had  all  along  antici- 
pated it  would  be. 

Mrs.  Catheriek,  he  informed  us,  had,  in  past  years,  laid 
him  under  some  obligations  for  faithful  service  rendered 
to  his  family  connections  and  to  himself.  She  had  been 
doubly  unfortunate  in  being  married  to  a  husband  who 
had  deserted  her,  and  in  ha  iiig  an  only  child  whose  mental 
faculties  had  been  in  a  disturbed  condition  from  a  very 
early  age.  Although  her  marriage  had  removed  her  to  a 
part  of  Hampshire  far  distant  from  the  neighborhood  in 
which  Sir  Perciral's  property  was  situated,  he  had  taken 
care  not  to  lose  sight  of  her;  his  friendly  feeling  toward 
the  poor  woman,  in  consideration  of  her  past  services, 
having  been  greatly  strengthened  by  his  admiration  of  the 
patience  and  courage  with  vvhieih  she  supported  her  calam- 
ities. In  course  of  time,  the  symptoms  of  mental  affliction 
in  her  unhappy  daughter  increased  lo  such  a  serious  extent 
as  to  make  it  a  matter  of  necessity  to  place  her  under 
proper  medical  care.  Mrs.  Catheriok  herself  recognized 
this  necessity;  but  she  also  felt  the  prejudice  common  to 
persons  occupying  her  respectable  station,  against  allow- 
ing her  child  to  be  aJmittecl,  as  a  pauper,  into  a  public 
Asylum.  Sir  Perciva!  had  respected  this  prejudice,  as  he 
respected  honest  independence  of  feeling  in  any  rank  of 
life;  and  had  resolved  to  mark  ids  grateful  sense  of  Mrs. 
Catherick's  early  attachment  to  the  interests  of  himt'elf 
and  his  family,  by  defraying  the  expense  of  her  daughter's 
maintenance  in  a  trustworthy  private  Asylum.  To  her 
mother's  regret,  and  to  his  own  regret,  the  unfort- 
unat,e  creature  had  discovered  the  share  which  circum- 
stances liad  induced  him  to  take  in  placing  her  under 
restraint,  and  had  conceived  the  most  intense  hatred 
and  distrust  of  him  in  consequence.  To  that  hatred 
and  distrust — which  had  expressed  itself  in  various 
ways  in  the  Asylum — the  anonymous  letter,  writ- 
ten after  her  escape,  was  plainly  attributable.  If  Miss 
Halcombe's  or  Mr.  Gilmore's  recollection  of  the  document 
did  not  confirm  that  view,  or  if  they  wished  for  any  atkii- 
tional  particulars  about;  the  Asylum  (the  address  of  which 
he  mentioned,  as  well  as  the  names  and  addresses  of  Lii4» 


12S  TT?K    WOMAX    IN"     WHITF. 

two  doctors  on  whose  certificates  the  patient  was  admitted), 
lie  was  ready  to  answer  any  question  and  to  clear  up  any 
uncertainty.  He  had  done  his  duty  to  the  unhappy  young 
woman,  by  instructing  his  solicitor  to  spare  no  expense  in 
tracing  her,  and  in  restoring  her  once  more  to  medical 
care;  and  he  was  now  only  anxious  to  do  his  duty  toward 
Miss  Fairlie  and  toward  her  family,  in  the  same  plain, 
straightforward  way. 

1  was  the  first  to  speak  in  answer  to  this  appeal.  My 
own  course  was  plain  to  me.  It  is  the  great  beauty  of  the 
Law  that  it  can  dispute  any  human  statement,  made 
under  any  circumstances,  and  reduced  to  any  form.  If 
1  had  felt  professionally  called  upon  to  set  a  case  against 
Sir  Percival  Glyde,  on  the  strength  of  his  own  explana- 
tion, I  could  have  done  so  beyond  ail  doubt.  But  my  duty 
did  not  lie  in  this  direction:  my  function  was  of  the  purely 
judicial  kind.  I  was  to  weigh  the  explanation  we  had  just 
heard;  to  allow  all  due  force  to  the  high  reputation  of  the 
gentleman  who  offered  it;  and  to  decide  honestly  whether 
the  probabilities,  on  Sir  Pereival's  own  showing,  were 
plainly  with  him,  or  plainly  against  him.  My  own  conv^ic- 
tion  was  that  they  were  plainly  with  him;  and  1  accordingly 
declared  that  his  explanation  was,  to  my  mind,  unques- 
tionably a  satisfactory  one. 

Miss  Halcombe,  after  looking  at  me  very  earnestly,  said 
a  few  words,  on  her  side,  to  the  same  effect — with  a  certain 
hesitation  of  manner,  however,  which  the  circumstances 
did  not  seem  to  me  to  warrant.  1  am  unable  to  say, 
positively,  whether  Sir  Percival  noticed  this  or  not.  My 
opinion  is  that  he  did;  seeing  that  he  pointedly  resumed 
the  subject,  although  he  might,  now,  with  all  propriety, 
have  allowed  it  to  drop. 

"  If  my  plain  statement  of  facts  had  only  been  addressed 
to  Mr.  Gilmore/'  he  said,  "  I  should  consider  any  further 
reference  to  this  unhappy  matter  as  unnecessary.  1  may 
fairly  expect  Mr.  Gilmore,  as  a  gentleman,  to  believe  me 
on  my  word;  and  when  he  has  done  me  that  justice,  all 
discussion  of  the  subject  between  us  has  come  to  an  end. 
But  my  position  with  a  lady  is  not  the  same.  1  owe  to  her, 
what  I  would  concede  to  no  man  alive — a  proof  of  the  truth 
of  my  assertion.  You  can  not  ask  for  that  proof.  Miss 
Halcombe;  and  it  is  therefore  my  duty  to  you,  and  still 
more  to  Miss  Fairlie,  to  offer  it.     May  I  beg  that  you  will 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE.  127 

write  at  once  to  the  mother  of  this  unfortunate  woman — 
to  Mrsj.  Catherick — to  ask  for  her  testimony  in  support  of 
the  expliinutioii  which  1  h;tve  just  otfered  to  you." 

I  saw  Miss  Ilalcombe  change  color,  and  look  a  little  un- 
easy. Sir  Percival'ssuj^gestion,  [)oliLelyas  it  was  expressed, 
appeared  to  her,  as  it  ap])eared  to  me,  to  point,  very  deli- 
cately, at  the  hesitation  '.vhich  her  manner  had  betrayed  a 
moment  or  two  since. 

"  1  hope.  Sir  Percival,  you  don't  do  me  the  injustice  to 
suppose  that  I  distrust  you?"  she  said,  quickly. 

"  Certainly  not.  Miss  Halcombe.  I  make  my  proposal 
purely  as  an  act  of  attention  to  yov.  Will  you  excuse  my 
obstinacy  if  1  still  venture  to  press  it?" 

He  walked  to  the  writing-table  as  he  spoke;  drew  a 
chair  to  it;  and  opened  the  jiaper-case. 

"  Let  me  beg  you  to  write  the  note,"  he  said,  "  as  a 
favor  to  me.  It  need  not  occupy  you  more  than  a  few 
minutes.  You  have  only  to  ask  Mrs.  Catherick  two  ques- 
tions. First,  if  her  daughter  was  placed  in  the  Asylum 
with  her  knowledge  and  approval.  Secondly,  if  the  share 
1  took  in  the  matter  was  such  as  to  merit  the  expression 
of  her  gratitude  toward  myself?  Mr.  Gilmore's  mind  is 
at  ease  on  this  unpleasant  subject;  and  your  mind  is  at 
ease — pray  set  my  mind  at  ease  also,  by  writing  the  note." 

'*  You  oblige  me  to  grant  your  request.  Sir  Percival, 
when  1  would  much  rather  refuse  it."  With  those  words 
Miss  Halcombe  rose  from  her  place,  and  went  to  the 
writing-table.  Sir  Percival  thanked  her,  handed  her  a 
pen,  and  then  walked  away  toward  the  fire-place.  Miss 
Fairlie's  little  Italian  grayhound  was  lying  on  the  rug. 
He  held  out  his  hand,  and  called  to  the  dog  good-hu- 
mored ly. 

"  Come,  Nina,"  he  said;  "  we  remember  each  other, 
don't  we?" 

The  little  beast,  cowardly  and  cross-grained  as  pet  dogs 
usually  are,  looked  up  at  him  sharply,  shrunk  away  from 
his  outstretched  hand,  whined,  shivered,  and  hid  itself 
under  a  sofa.  ]t  was  scarcely  possible  that  he  could  have 
been  put  out  by  such  a  trifle  as  a  dog's  reception  of  him — 
but  1  observed,  nevertheless,  that  he  walked  away  toward 
the  window  very  suddenly.  Perhaps  his  temper  is  irritable 
at  times?  If  so,  I  can  sympathize  with  him.  My  temper 
is  irritable  at  times,  too. 


138  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Miss  Halcombe  was  not  long  in  writing  the  note.  When 
it  was  done,  she  rose  from  the  writing-table,  and  handed 
the  open  sheet  of  paper  to  Sir  Percival.  lie  bowed;  took 
it  from  her;  folded  it  up  immi  diately,  without  looking  at 
the  contents;  sealed  it;  wrote  the  address;  and  hancied  it 
baek  to  her  in  silence.  1  never  saw  anything  more  grace 
fully  and  more  becomingly  done  in  my  life. 

"You  insist  on  my  posting  this  letter.  Sir  Percival?" 
said  Miss  Halcombe. 

\  "  I  beg  you  will  post  it,"  he  answered.  "  And  now 
that  it  is  written  and  sealed  up,  allow  me  to  ask  one  or  two 
last  questions  about  the  unhappy  woman  to  whom  it  refers. 
I  have  read  the  communication  which  Mr.  Gilmore  addressed 
to  my  solicitor,  describing  the  circumstances  under  which 
the  writer  of  the  anonymous  lette.-  was  identified.  But 
there  are  certain  points  to  which  that  statement  does  not 
refer.     Did  Anne  Catherick  see  Miss  Fairlie?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Miss  Halcombe. 

"  Did  she  see  you?" 

"No." 

"  She  saw  nobody  from  the  house,  then,  except  a  certain 
Mr.  Hartright,  who  accidentally  met  with  her  in  the 
church-yard  here?" 

"Nobody  else." 

"  Mr.  Hartright  was  employed  at  Limmeridge  as  a 
drawing-master,  I  believe?  Is  he  a  member  of  one  of  the 
Water-color  Societies?" 

"  I  believe  he  is,"  answered  Miss  Halcombe. 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  was  thinking  over  the 
last  answer,  and  then  added: 

"  Did  you  find  out  where  Anne  Catherick  was  living, 
when  she  was  in  the  neighborhood?" 

"  Yes.     At  a  farm  on  the  moor,  called  Todd's  Corner.*' 

"  It  is  a  duty  we  all  owe  to  the  poor  creature  herself  to 
trace  her,"  continued  Sir  Percival.  "  She  may  have  said 
something  at  Todd's  Corner  which  may  help  us  to  find  her. 
I  will  go  there,  and  make  inquiries  on  the  chance.  In  the 
meantime,  as  I  can  not  prevail  on  myself  to  discuss  this 
painful  subject  with  Miss  B'airlie,  may  I  beg,  Miss  Hal- 
CDmbe,  that  you  will  kindly  undertake  to  give  her  the  neces- 
sary explanation,  deferring  it  of  course  until  you  have  re- 
oeivcd  the  reply  to  that  note." 

AlisB  Halcombe  promised  to  comply  with  his  request. 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE.  12U 

He  thanked  her— noddud  pleasiiiitly — and  left  us,  to  go  and 
establish  himself  in  his  own  room.  As  he  02:)ened  the  door, 
the  cross-grained  giayliouiid  poked  out  her  sharp  muzzle 
from  under  the  sofa,  and  barked  and  snapped  at  him. 

"  x\  good  morning's  work.  Miss  Ilaleombe,"  I  said,  as 
soon  as  we  were  alone.  "  Here  is  an  anxious  day  well 
ended  already." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered;  "no  doubt.  I  am  very  glad 
your  mind  is  satisfied." 

"  My  mind!  Surely,  with  that  note  in  your  hand,  your 
mind  is  at  ease  too?" 

"  Oh,  yes — how  can  it  be  otherwise?  I  know  the  thing 
could  not  be,"  she  went  on,  speaking  more  to  herself  than 
to  me;  "  but  1  almost  wish  Walter  flartright  had  stayed 
here  long  enough  to  be  present  at  the  explanation,  and  to 
hear  the  proposal  to  me  to  write  this  note." 

1  was  a  little  surprised — perhaps  a  little  piqued,  also — by 
these  last  words. 

"  Events,  it  is  true,  connected  Mr.  Hartright  very  re- 
markably with  the  affair  of  the  letter,"  I  said;  "  and  I 
really  admit  that  he  conducted  himself,  all  things  consid- 
ered, with  great  delicacy  and  discretion.  But  1  am  quite 
at  a  loss  to  understand  what  useful  influence  his  presence 
would  have  exercised  in  relation  to  the  effect  of  Sir  Perci- 
val's  statement  on  your  mind  or  mine." 

"  It  was  only  a  fancy,"  she  said,  absently.  "  There  is 
no  need  to  discuss  it,  Mr.  Gilmore.  Your  experience  ought 
to  be,  and  is,  the  best  guide  I  can  desire." 

1  did  not  altogether  like  her  thrusting  the  whole  respon- 
sibility, in  this  marked  manner,  on  my  shoulders.  If  Mr. 
Fairlie  nad  done  it,  I  should  not  have  been  surprised.  But 
resolute,  clear-minded  Miss  Halcombe  was  the  very  last 
person  in  the  world  whom  I  should  have  expected  to  find 
shrinking  from  the  expression  of  an  opinion  of  her  own. 

"  If  any  doubts  still  trouble  you,"  I  said,  "  why  not 
mention  them  to  me  at  once?  Tell  me  plainly,  have  you 
any  reason  to  distrust  Sir  Percival  Glyde?" 

"  None  whatever." 

"  Do  you  see  anything  improbable,  or  contradictory,  in 
his  explanation?" 

"  Ilow  can  1  say  I  do,  after  the  proof  he  has  offered  me 
of  the  truth  of  it?    Can  there  be  better  testimony  in  his 

6 


130  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

favor,  Mr.  Gilmore,  than  the  testimony  of  the  woman's 
mother?" 

''  None  better.  If  the  answer  to  your  note  of  inquiry 
proves  to  be  satisfactory,  I,  for  one,  can  not  see  what  more 
any  friend  of  SirPercival's  can  possibly  expect  from  him." 

"  Then  we  will  post  the  note,"  she  said,  rising  to  have 
the  room,  "  and  dismiss  all  further  reference  to  the  sub- 
ject, until  the  answer  arrives.  Don't  attacD  any  weight 
to  my  hesitation.  I  can  give  no  better  reason  for  it  than 
that  1  have  been  over-anxious  about  Laura  lately;  and 
anxiety,  Mt.  Gilmore,  unsettles  the  strongest  of  us." 

She  left  me  abruptly;  her  naturally  firm  voice  faltering 
as  she  spoke  those  last  words.  A  sensitive,  vehement, 
passionate  nature — a  woman  of  ten  thousand  in  these 
trivial,  superficial  times.  1  had  known  her  from  her 
earliest  j^ears;  I  had  seen  her  tested,  as  she  grew  up,  in 
more  than  one  trying  family  crisis,  and  my  long  experience 
made  me  attach  an  importance  to  her  hesitation  under  the 
circumstances  here  detailed,  which  1  should  certainly  not 
have  felt  in  the  case  of  another  woman.  I  could  see  no 
cause  for  any  uneasiness  or  any  doubt:  but  she  had  made 
me  a  little  uneasy,  and  a  little  doubtful,  nevertheless,  in 
my  youth,  I  should  have  chafed  and  fretted  under  the  irri- 
tation of  my  own  unreasonable  state  of  mind.  In  my  age, 
I  knew  better;  and  went  out  philosophically  to  walk  ifc 
off. 


II. 

"We  all  met  again  at  dinner-time. 

Sir  Percival  was  in  such  boisterous  high  spirits  that  I 
hardly  recognized  him  as  the  same  man  whose  quiet  tact, 
refinement,  and  good  sense  had  impressed  me  so  strongly 
at  the  interview  of  the  morning.  The  only  trace  of  his  for- 
mer self  that  I  could  detect,  re-appeared,  every  now  and 
then,  in  his  manner  toward  Miss  Fairlie.  A  look  or  a 
word  from  her,  suspended  his  loudest  laugh,  checked  his 
gayest  flow  of  talk,  and  rendered  him  all  attention  to  her, 
and  to  no  one  else  at  table,  in  an  instant.  Although 
he  never  openly  tried  to  draw  her  into  the  conversation,  he 
never  lost  the  slightest  chance  she  gave  him  of  lettin<r  her 
drift  into  it  by  accident,  and  of  saying  the  words  to  iier, 
auder  those  favorable  circumstances,  which  a  mau  wiialess 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  131 

tact  and  delicacy  would  have  pointedly  addressed  to  her  the 
momout  they  occurred  to  him.  Rather  to  my  surprise. 
Miss  Fairlie  appeared  to  be  sensible  of  his  attentions,  with- 
out being  moved  by  them.  She  was  a  little  confused  from 
time  to  time,  when  he  looked  at  her,  or  spoke  to  her;  but 
she  never  warmed  toward  him.  Kank,  fortune,  good 
breeding,  good  looks,  the  respect  of  a  gentleman,  and  the 
devotion  of  a  lover,  were  all  humbly  placed  at  her  feet, 
and,  so  far  as  appearances  went,  were  ail  offered  in  vain. 

On  the  next  day,  "the  Tuesday,  Sir  Percival  went  in  the 
morning  (taking  one  of  the  servants  with  him  as  a  guide) 
to  Todd^s  Corner.  His  inquiries,  as  1  afterward  heard, 
led  to  no  results.  On  his  return,  he  had  an  interview 
with  Mr.  Fairlie;  and  in  the  afternoon  he  and  Miss  Hal- 
combe  rude  out  together.  Nothing  else  happened  worthy 
of  record.  The  evening  passed  as  usual.  There  was  no 
change  in  Sir  Percival,  and  no  change  in  Miss  Fairlie. 

The  Wednesday's  post  brought  with  it  an  event — the 
reply  from  Mrs.  Catherick.  I  took  a  copy  of  the  docu- 
ment, which  I  have  preserved,  and  which  I  may  as  well 
present  in  this  place.     It  ran  as  follows: 

"  Madame, — I  beg  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  your 
letter,  inquiring  whether  my  daughter,  Anne,  was  placed 
under  medical  superintendence  with  my  knowledge  and  ap- 
proval, and  whether  the  share  taken  in  the  matter  jy  Sir 
Percival  Glyde  was  such  as  to  merit  the  expression  of  my 
gratitude  toward  that  gentleman.  Be  pleased  to  accept 
my  answer  in  tlie  affirmative  to  both  those  questions,  and 
believe  me  to  remain,  your  obedient  servant, 

"Jane  Anne  Cathkrick." 

Short,  sharp,  and  to  the  point:  in  form,  rather  a  busi- 
ness-like letter  for  a  wcman  to  write;  in  substance,  as  plain 
a  confirmation  as  could  be  desired  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde's 
statement.  This  was  my  opinion,  and,  with  certain  minor 
reservations.  Miss  Halcombe's  opinion  also.  Sir  Percival, 
when  the  letter  was  shown  to  him,  did  not  appear  to  be 
struck  by  the  sharp,  short  tone  of  it.  He  told  us  that 
Mrs.  Catherick  was  a  woman  of  few  words,  a  clear-headed, 
straightforward,  unimagi native  person,  who  wrote  briefly 
rnd  plainly,  just  as  sue  spoke. 

Tiie  next  duty  to  be  accomplished,  now  that  the  answer 
had  been  received,  was  to  acquaint  Miss  Fairlie  with  Sir 


133  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITR. 

Percival's  explanation.  Miss  Halcombe  had  undertaken 
to  do  this,  and  had  left  the  room  to  go  to  her  sister,  when 
she  suddenly  returned  again,  and  sat  down  by  the  easy- 
chair  in  which  I  was  reading  the  newspaper.  Sir  Percival 
had  gone  out  a  minute  before  to  look  at  the  stables,  and 
no  one  was  in  the  room  but  ourselves. 

"  1  suppose  we  have  really  and  truly  done  all  we  can?'* 
she  said,  turning  and  twisting  Mrs.  Catherick's  letter  in 
her  hand. 

"If  we  are  friends  of  Sir  Percivars,  who  know  him  and 
trust  him,  we  have  done  all,  and  more  than  all,  that  is  nec- 
essary,''] answered,  a  little  annoyed  by  this  return  of  her 
hesitation.     "  But  if  we  are  enemies  who  suspect  him — " 

"  That  alternative  is  not  even  to  be  thought  of,"  she 
-nterposed.  "  W^e  are  Sir  Percival's  friends;  and,  if  gen- 
erosity and  forbearance  can  add  to  our  regard  for  him,  we 
ought  to  be  Sir  Percival's  admirers  as  well.  You  know 
that  he  saw  Mr.  Fairlie  yesterday,  and  that  he  afterward 
went  out  with  me?" 

"  Yes.     I  saw  you  riding  away  together." 

"  We  began  the  ride  by  talking  about  Anne  Catherick, 
and  about  the  singular  manner  in  which  Mr.  liartright  met 
with  her.  But  we  soon  dropped  that  subject;  and  Sir  Per- 
cival spoke  next,  in  the  most  unselfish  terms,  of  his  en- 
gagement with  Laura.  He  said  that  he  had  observed  that 
she  was  out  of  spirits,  and  he  was  willing,  if  not  informed  to 
the  contrary,  to  attribute  to  that  cause  the  alteration  in  her 
manner  toward  him  during  his  present  visit.  If,  however, 
there  was  any  more  serious  reason  for  the  change,  he  would 
entreat  that  no  constraint  might  be  placed  on  her  inclina- 
tions either  by  Mr.  Fairlie  or  by  me.  All  he  asked  in  that 
case  was  that  she  would  recall  to  mind,  for  the  last  time, 
what  the  circumstances  were  under  which  the  engagement 
between  them  was  made,  and  what  his  conduct  had  been 
from  the  beginning  of  the  courtship  to  the  present  time. 
If,  after  due  reflection  on  those  two  subjects,  she  seriously 
desired  that  he  should  withdraw  his  pretensions  to  the 
honor  of  becoming  her  husband — and  if  she  would  tell  him 
so  plainly,  with  her  own  lips — lie  would  sacrifice  himself 
by  leaving  her  perfectly  free  to  withdraw  from  the  engage- 

UllMlt." 

"  No  man  could  say  more  than  that,  Miss  Halcombe. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  133 

As  to  my  experience,  few  men  in  his  situation  would  have 
said  as  much." 

She  jDaused  after  I  had  spoken  those  words,  and  looked 
at  me  with  a  singular  expression  of  perplexity  and  distress. 

"  I  accuse  nobody  and  I  suspect  nothing,"  she  broke  out, 
abruptly.  "  But  I  can  not  and  will  not  accept  the  respon- 
sibility of  persuading  Laura  to  this  marriage." 

"  This  is  exactly  the  course  which  Sir  Percival  Clyde  has 
himself  requested  you  to  take, "I  replied,  in  astonishment. 
"  He  has  begged  you  not  to  force  her  inclinations." 

"  And  he  indirectly  obliges  me  to  force  them,  if  I  give 
her  his  message. " 

"  How  can  that  possibly  be?" 

"  Consult  your  own  knowledge  of  Laura,  Mr.  Ciimore. 
If  1  tell  her  to  reflect  on  the  circumstances  of  her  engage- 
ment, I  at  once  appeal  to  two  of  the  strongest  feelings  in 
her  nature — to  her  love  for  her  father's  memory,  and  to 
hei  strict  regard  for  truth.  You  know  that  she  never 
broke  a  promise  in  her  life;  you  know  that  she  entered  on 
this  engagement  at  the  beginning  of  her  father's  fatal  ill- 
ness, and  that  he  spoke  hopefully  and  happily  of  her  mar- 
riage to  Sir  Percival  Clyde  on  his  death-bed." 

1  own  that  I  was  a  little  p^"vocked  at  this  view  of  the 
case. 

"  Surely,"  I  said,  "  you  don^  mean  to  infer  that  when 
Sir  Percival  spoke  to  you  yesterday,  he  speculated  on  such 
a  result  as  you  have  just  mentioned.'"' 

Her  frank,  fearless  face  answered  for  her  before  she 
spoke. 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  remain  an  instant  in  the  com- 
pany of  any  man  whom  I  suspected  of  such  baseness  as 
that?"  she  asked,  angrily. 

I  liked  to  feel  her  hearty  indignation  flash  out  on  me  in 
that  way.  We  see  so  much  malice  and  so  little  indignation 
in  my  profession. 

"  In  that  case,"  1  said,  "  excuse  me  if  1  tell  you,  in  our 
legal  phrase,  that  you  are  traveling  out  of  the  record. 
Whatever  the  consequences  may  be.  Sir  Percival  has  a 
right  to  expect  that  your  sister  should  carefully  consider 
her  engagement  from  every  reasonable  point  of  view  be- 
fore she  claims  her  release  from  it.  If  that  unlucky  letter 
has  prejudiced  her  against  him,  go  at  once,  and  tell  her 
that  he  has  cleared  himself  in  your  eyes  and    in  mine. 


134  THK    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

What  objection  can  she  urge  against  hiiu  after  that?  What 
excuse  can  she  possibly  have  for  changing  her  mind  about 
a  man  whom  she  had  virtually  accepted  for  her  husband 
more  than  two  years  ago?" 

"  In  the  eyes  of  law  and  reason,  Mr.  Gilmore,  no  excuse, 
I  dare  say.  If  she  still  hesitates,  and  if  I  still  hesitate, 
you  must  attribute  our  strange  conduct,  if  you  like,  to 
caprice  in  both  cases,  and  we  must  bear  the  imputation  as 
well  as  we  can." 

With  those  words,  she  suddenly  rose,  and  left  me. 
When  a  sensible  woman  has  a  serious  question  put  to  her, 
and  evades  it  by  a  flippant  answer,  it  is  a  sure  sign,  in  ninety- 
nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred,  that  she  has  something  to 
conceal.  I  returned  to  the  perusal  of  the  newspaper, 
strongly  suspecting  that  Miss  Halcombe  and  Miss  Fairlie 
had  a  secret  between  thtni  which  they  were  keeping  from 
Sir  Percival  and  keeping  from  me.  I  thought  tins  hard  on 
both  of  us — especially  on  Sir  Percival. 

My  doubts — or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  my  convictions 
— were  confirmed  by  Miss  Halcombe's  language  and  man- 
ner, when  I  saw  her  again  later  in  the  day.  She  was  sus- 
piciously brief  and  reserved  in  telling  me  the  result  of  her 
interview  with  her  sister.  Miss  Fairlie,  it  appeared,  had 
listened  quietly  while  the  alTair  of  the  letter  was  placed 
before  her  in  the  right  point  of  view;  but  when  Miss  Hal- 
combe next  proceeded  to  say  that  !he  object  of  Sir  Percival's 
visit  to  Limmeridge  was  to  prevail  on  her  to  let  a  day  be 
fixed  for  the  marriage,  she  checked  all  further  reference 
to  the  subject  by  begging  for  time.  If  Sir  Percival  would 
consent  to  spare  her  for  the  present,  she  would  undertake 
to  give  him  his  final  answer  before  the  end  of  the  year. 
She  pleaded  for  this  delay  with  such  anxiety  and  agitation, 
that  Miss  Halcombe  had  promised  to  use  her  influence,  if 
necessary,  to  obtain  it;  and  there,  at  Miss  Fairlie's  earnest 
entreaty,  all  further  discussion  of  the  marriage  question  had 
ended. 

The  purely  temporary  arrangement  thus  proposed  might 
have  been  convenient  enough  to  the  young  lady;  but  it 
proved  somewhat  embarrassing  to  the  writer  of  these  lines. 
That  morning's  post  had  brought  a  letter  from  my  partner, 
which  obliged  me  to  return  to  town  the  next  day,  by  tlic 
afternoon  train.  It  was  extremely  probable  that  I  should 
find  uo  second  opportunity  of  presenting  myself  at  Lini- 


THE    WOxMAN    IN    WHITE.  135 

meridge  House  during  the  remainder  of  the  year.  In  that 
case,  supposing  Miss  Fairiie  ultimately  decided  on  holding 
to  her  engagement,  my  necessary  personal  comnumicaLion 
with  her,  before  1  drew  her  settlement,  would  be  something 
like  a  downright  imijossibility;  and  wo  should  be  obliged 
to  commit  to  writing  questions  which  ought  always  to  be 
discussed  on  both  sides  by  word  of  mouth.  I  said  nothing 
about  this  ditiiculty,  until  Sir  Percival  had  been  consulted 
on  the  subject  of  the  desired  delay.  He  was  too  gallant  a 
gentleman  not  to  grant  the  request  immediately.  When  Miss 
llalcombe  informed  me  of  this,  I  told  her  that  I  must  abso- 
lutely speak  to  her  sister  before  I  left  Limmeridge;  and  it 
was,  therefore,  arranged  that  I  should  see  Miss  Fairiie  in 
her  own  sitting-room  the  next  morning.  She  did  not  come 
down  to  dinner,  or  join  us  in  the  evening.  Indisposition 
was  the  excuse;  and  I  thought  Sir  Percival  looked,  as  well 
he  might,  a  little  annoyed  when  he  heard  of  it. 

Tlie  next  morning,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  1  went 
up  to  Miss  Fairlie's  sittig-room.  The  poor  girl  looked  so 
pale  and  sad,  and  came  forward  to  welcome  me  so  readily 
and  prettily,  that  the  resolution  to  lecture  her  on  her 
eapiice  and  indecision,  which  1  had  been  forming  all  the 
way  uf  stairs,  failed  me  on  the  spot.  1  led  her  back  to 
the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen,  and  placed  myself 
opposite  to  her.  Her  cross  grained  pet  grayhound  was  in 
the  room,  and  I  f  idly  expected  a  barking  and  snapping 
reception.  Strange  to  say,  the  whimsical  little  brute  falsi- 
fied my  expectations  by  jumping  into  my  lap,  and  poking 
its  sharp  muzzle  familiarly  into  my  hand  the  moment  1  sat 
down. 

"  You  used  often  to  sit  on  my  knee  when  you  were  a 
child,  my  dear,"  I  said,  "  and  now  your  little  dog  seems 
determined  to  succeed  you  in  the  vacant  throne.  Is  that 
pretty  drawing  your  doing?" 

I  pointed  to  a  little  album  which  lay  on  the  table  by  her 
side,  and  which  she  had  evidently  been  looking  over  when 
I  cafi^3  in.  The  page  that  lay  open  had  a  small  water- 
color  landscape  very  neatly  mounted  on  it.  This  was  the 
drawing  which  had  suggested  my  question:  an  idle  ques- 
tion enough — but  how  could  I  begin  to  talk  business  to  her 
the  moment  1  opened  my  lips? 

"  ]S'o,"  she  said,  looking  away  from  the  drawing  ratli9? 
Qonfui^edl^j  "  it  is  not  my  doing.'* 


136  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Ht'f  fingers  had  a  restless  habit,  which  I  remembered  in 
her  as  a  child,  of  always  playing  with  the  first  thing  that 
came  to  hand,  whenever  any  one  was  talking  to  her.  Ou 
this  occasion  they  wandered  to  the  album,  and  toyed 
absently  about  the  margin  of  the  little  water-color  draw- 
ing. The  expression  of  melancholy  deepened  ou  her  face. 
She  did  not  look  at  the  drawing,  or  look  at  me.  Her  eyes 
moved  uneasily  from  object  to  object  in  the  room;  betray- 
ing plainly  that  she  suspected  what  my  purpose  was  in 
coming  to  speak  to  her.  Seeing  that,  1  thought  it  best  to 
get  to  the  purpose  with  as  little  delay  as  possible. 

"  One  of  the  errands,  my  dear,  wliich  brings  me  here  is  to 
bid  you  good-bye,'' '  1  began.  "  1  must  get  back  to  Lon- 
don to-day;  and,  before  I  leave,  I  want  to  have  a  word 
with  you  on  the  subject  of  your  own  aflfairs.  "'* 

"  I  am  very  sorry  you  are  going,  Mr.  Gilmore,''  vshe 
said,  looking  at  me  kindly.  "  It  is  like  the  happy  old 
times  to  have  you  here.^' 

"  I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  come  back,  and  recall  those 
pleasant  memories  once  more,"  I  continued;  "  but  as 
there  is  some  uncertainty  about  the  future,  I  must  take 
my  opportunity  when  I  can  get  it,  and  speak  to  you  now. 
1  am  your  old  lawyer  and  your  old  friend;  and  1  may  re- 
mind you,  I  am  sure,  without  offense,  of  the  possibility  of 
your  marrying  Sir  Percival  Glyde. '* 

She  took  her  hand  off  the  little  album  as  suddenly  as  if 
it  had  turned  hot  and  burned  her.  Her  fingers  twined 
together  nervously  in  her  lap;  her  eyes  looked  down  again 
at  the  floor;  and  an  expression  of  constraint  settled  on  her 
face  which  looked  almost  like  an  expression  of  pain. 

"  Is  it  absolutely  necessary  to  speak  of  my  marriage  en- 
gagement?" she  asked,  in  low  tones. 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  refer  to  it,"  I  answered;  "  but  not 
to  dwell  on  it.  Let  us  merely  say  that  you  may  marry,  or 
that  you  may  not  marry.  In  the  first  case,  I  must  be  pre- 
pared, beforehand,  to  draw  your  settlement;  and  I  ought 
not  to  do  that  without,  as  a  matter  of  politeness,  first 
consulting  you.  This  may  be  my  only  chance  of  hearing 
what  your  wishes  are.  Let  us,  therefore,  suppose  the  case 
of  your  marrying,  and  let  me  inform  you,  in  as  few  words 
as  possible,  what  you  position  is  now,  and  what  you  may 
make  it,  if  you  please,  in  the  future." 

1  explained  to  her  the  object  of  a  marriage  settlement; 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  13? 

Und  then  told  her  exactly  what  her  prospects  were — in  the 
first  place,  on  her  coming  of  age,  and,  in  the  second  place, 
on  the  decease  of  her  uncle — making  the  distinction  be- 
tween the  property  in  which  she  iiad  a  life  interest  only, 
and  the  property  which  was  left  at  her  own  control.  8he 
listened  attentively,  with  the  constrained  expression  still 
on  her  face,  and  her  hands  still  nervously  clasped  together 
in  her  lap. 

"  And  now,'*  I  said,  in  conclusion,  "  tell  me  if  you  can 
think  of  any  condition  which,  in  the  case  we  have  supposed, 
you  would  wish  me  to  make  for  you — subject,  of  course, 
to  your  guardian's  approval,  as  you  are  not  yet  of  age." 

She  moved  uneasily  in  her  chair — then  looked  in  my 
face,  on  a  sudden,  very  earnestly. 

"  If  it  does  happen,"  she  began,  faintly;  "  if  I  am — " 

"  If  you  are  married,"  1  added,  helping  her  out. 

"  Don't  let  him  part  me  from  Marian,"  she  cried,  with 
a  sudden  outbreak  of  energy.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Gilmore,  pray 
make  it  law  that  Marian  is  to  live  with  me!" 

Under  other  circumstances  I  might  perhajis  have  been 
amused  at  this  essentially  feminine  interpretation  of  my 
question,  and  of  the  long  explanation  which  had  preceded 
it.  But  her  looks  and  tones,  when  she  spoke,  were  of  a 
kind  to  make  me  more  than  serious — they  distressed  me. 
Her  words,  few  as  they  were,  betrayed  a  desperate  clinging 
to  the  past  which  boded  ill  for  the  future. 

"  Your  having  Marian  Halcombe  to  live  with  you,  can 
easily  be  settled  by  private  arrangement,"  1  said.  "  You 
hardly  understood  my  question,  I  think.  It  referred  to 
your  own  property — to  the  disposal  of  your  money.  Sup- 
posing you  were  to  make  a  will,  when  you  come  of  age,  who 
would  you  like  the  money  to  go  to?" 

"  Marian  has  been  mother  and  sister  both  to  me,"  said 
the  good,  affectionate  girl,  her  pretty  blue  eyes  glisteaing 
while  she  spoke.  "  May  I  leave  it  to  Marian,  Mr.  Gil- 
more?" 

"  Certainly,  my  love,"  1  answered.  "  But  remember 
what  a  large  sum  it  is.  Would  you  like  it  all  to  go  to  Miss 
Halcombe?" 

She  hesitated;  her  color  came  and  went;  and  her  hand 
stole  back  again  to  the  little  album. 

"  Not  all  of  it,"  she  said.  "  There  is  some  one  else,  be- 
sides Marian — " 


138  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

She  stopped;  her  color  heightened;  and  the  fingers  of 
the  hand  that  rested  upon  the  album  beat  gently  on  the 
margin  of  the  drawing,  as  if  her  memory  had  set  them  go- 
ing mechanically  with  the  remembrance  of  a  favorite  tune. 

"  You  mean  some  other  member  of  the  family  besides 
Miss  Halcombe?"  I  suggested,  seeing  her  at  a  loss  to  pro- 
ceed. 

The  heightening  color  spread  to  her  forehead  and  her 
neck,  and  the  nervous  fingers  suddenly  clasped  themselves 
fast  round  the  edge  of  the  book. 

"  There  is  some  one  else,"  she  said,  not  noticing  my  last 
words,  though  she  had  evidently  heard  them;  "  there  is 
some  one  else  who  might  like  a  little  keepsake,  if^ — if  1 
might  leave  it.  There  would  be  no  harm,  if  I  should  die 
first—" 

She  paused  again.  The  color  that  had  spread  over  her 
cheeks  suddenly,  as  suddenly  left  them.  Tlie  hand  on  the 
album  resigned  its  hold,  trembled  a  little,  and  moved  the 
book  away  from  her.  She  looked  at  me  for  an  instant — 
then  turned  her  head  aside  in  the  chair.  Her  handkerchief 
fell  to  the  floor  as  she  changed  her  position,  and  she  hur- 
riedly hid  her  face  from  me  in  her  hands. 

Sad!  To  remember  her,  as  1  did,  the  liveliest,  happiest 
child  that  ever  laughed  the  day  through;  and  to  see  her 
now,  in  the  flower  of  her  age  and  her  beauty,  so  broken 
and  so  brought  down  as  this! 

In  the  distress  that  she  caused  me,  1  forgot  the  years  that 
had  passed,  and  the  change  they  had  made  in  our  position 
toward  each  other.  I  moved  my  chair  close  to  her,  and 
picked  up  her  handkerchief  from  the  carpet,  and  drew  her 
hands  from  her  face  gently.  "  Don't  cry,  my  love,"  1 
said,  and  dried  the  tears  that  were  gathering  in  her  eyes, 
with  my  own  hand,  as  if  she  had  been  the  little  Laura 
Fairlie  of  ten  long  years  ago. 

It  was  the  best  way  I  could  have  taken  to  compose  her. 
She  laid  her  head  on  my  shoulder,  and  smiled  faintly 
through  her  tears. 

*'  I  am  very  sorry  for  forgetting  myself,"  she  said,  art- 
lessly. "  I  have  not  been  well — 1  have  felt  sadly  weak  and 
nervous  lately;  and  I  often  cry  without  reason  when  I  am 
alone.  I  am  better  now;  I  can  answer  you  as  1  ought,  Mr. 
Gilmore,  I  can  indeed." 

"  1^0,  no,  my  dear,"  1  replied;  "  we  will  consider  the 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE.  IJJS 

Bubject  as  do7iB  with,  for  the  present.  You  have  said 
enough  to  sanction  my  taking  the  best  possible  care  of  your 
interests;  and  we  can  settle  details  at  another  opportunity. 
Let  us  have  done  with  business,  now,  and  talk  of  some- 
thing else/' 

1  led  her  at  once  mto  speaking  on  other  topics.  In  ten 
minutes'  time  she  was  in  better  spirits;  and  1  rose  to  take 
my  leave. 

"  Come  here  again,"  she  said,  earnestly.  "  I  will  try  to 
be  worthier  of  your  kind  feeling  for  me  and  for  my  inter- 
ests if  you  will  only  come  again." 

Still  clinging  to  the  past — that  past  which  I  represented 
to  her,  in  my  way,  as  Miss  Halcombe  did  in  hers!  It 
troubled  me  sorely  to  see  her  looking  back,  at  the  begin- 
nuig  of  her  career,  just  as  1  look  back  at  the  end  of  mine. 

"  If  I  do  come  again,  1  hope  I  shall  find  you  better,"  I 
said — "  better  and  happier.     God  bless  you,  my  dear!" 

She  only  answered  by  putting  up  her  cheek  to  me  to  be 
kissed.  Even  lawyers  have  hearts;  and  mine  ached  a  lit- 
tle as  I  took  leave  of  her. 

The  whole  mterview  between  us  had  hardly  lasted  more 
than  half  an  hour — she  had  not  breathed  a  word,  in  my 
presence,  to  explain  the  mystery  of  her  evident  distress  and 
dismay  at  the  prospect  of  her  marriage — and  yet  she  had 
contrived  to  win  me  over  to  her  side  of  the  question,  I 
neither  knew  how  nor  why.  I  had  entered  the  room,  feel- 
ing that  Sir  Percival  Glyde  had  fair  reason  to  complain  of 
the  manner  in  which  she  was  treating  him.  I  left  it  se- 
cretly hoping  that  matters  might  end  in  her  taking  him  at 
his  word  and  claiming  her  release.  A  man  of  my  age  and 
experience  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  vacillate  in 
this  unreasonable  manner.  1  can  make  no  excuse  for  my- 
self; I  can  only  tell  the  truth,  and  say — so  it  was. 

The  hour  for  my  departure  was  now  drawing  near.  1 
sent  to  Mr,  Fairlie  to  say  that  I  would  wait  on  him  to  take 
leave  if  he  liked,  but  that  he  must  excuse  my  being  rather 
in  a  hurry.  He  sent  a  message  back,  written  in  pencil  on 
a  elip  of  paper:  "  Kind  love  and  best  wishes,  dear  Gilmore. 
Hurry  of  any  kind  is  inexpressibly  injurious  to  me.  Pray 
take  care  of  yourself.     Good-bye.  ' 

Just  before  I  left,  I  saw  Miss  Halcombe,  for  a  moment, 
alone. 

"  Have  you  said  all  you  wanted  to  Laura?"  she  asked. 


140  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

*'  Yes,"  1  replied.  "  She  is  very  weak  and  nervous — ^1 
am  glad  she  has  you  to  take  care  of  her." 

Miss  Halcombe's  sharp  eyes  studied  my  face  attentively. 

"  You  are  altering  your  opinion  about  Laura,"  she  said. 
"  You  are  readier  to  make  allowances  for  her  than  you 
were  yesterday." 

No  sensible  man  ever  engages,  unprepared,  in  a  fencing- 
match  of  words  with  a  woman.     I  only  answered: 

"  Let  me  know  what  happens.  I  will  do  nothing  till  I 
hear  from  you." 

She  still  looked  hard  in  my  face.  "  I  wish  it  was  all 
over,  and  well  over,  Mr.  Gilmore — and  so  do  you."  With 
those  words  she  left  me. 

Sir  Percival  most  politely  nisisted  on  seeing  me  to  the 
carriage  door. 

"  If  you  are  ever  in  my  neighborhood,"  he  said,  "  pray 
don't  forget  that  I  am  sincerely  anxious  to  improve  our 
acquaintance.  The  tried  and  trusted  old  friend  of  this 
family  will  be  always  a  welcome  visitor  in  any  house  of 
mine." 

A  really  irresistible  man — courteous,  considerate,  delight- 
fully free  from  pride — a  gentleman,  every  inch  of  him. 
As  I  drove  away  to  the  station,  1  felt  as  if  I  could  cheer- 
fully do  anything  to  promote  the  interests  of  Sir  Percival 
Clyde — anything  in  the  world,  except  drawing  the  mar- 
riage-settlement of  his  wife. 


riL 


A  WEKK  passed,  after  my  return  to  London,  without  the 
receipt  of  any  communication  from  Miss  Halcombe. 

On  the  eighth  day,  a  letter  in  her  handwriting  was  placed 
among  the  other  letters  on  my  table. 

It  announced  that  Sir  Percival  Glyde  had  been  definitely 
accepted,  and  that  the  marriage  was  to  take  place,  as  he 
had  originally  desired,  before  the  end  of  the  year.  In  all 
[)robability  the  ceremony  would  be  performed  during  the 
last  fortnight  in  December.  Miss  Fairlie's  twenty-first 
birthday  was  late  in  March.  She  would,  therefore,  by  this 
arrangement,  become  Sir  Percival's  wife  about  three 
months  before  she  was  of  age. 

I  ought  not  to  have  been  surprised,  1  ought  not  to  have 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHTT2.  l4l 

been  sorry;  bat  I  was  surprised  and  sorry,  nevertheless. 
Some  little  disappointment,  caused  by  the  unsatisfactory 
shortness  of  Miss  Halcombe's  letter,  niuiglcd  itself  with 
these  feelings,  and  contributed  its  share  toward  upsetting 
my  serenity  for  the  day.  In  six  lines  my  correspondent 
announced  the  proposed  marriage;  in  throe  more,  she  told 
me  that  Sir  Percival  had  left  Cumberland  to  return  to  his 
house  in  Hampshire;  and  in  two  concluding  sentences  shej 
informed  me,  first,  that  Laura  was  sadly  in  want  of  change 
and  cheerful  society;  secondly,  that  she  had  resolved  to 
try  the  effect  of  some  such  change  forthwith,  by  taking 
her  sister  away  with  her  on  a  visit  to  certain  old  friends  in 
Yorkshire.  There  the  letter  ended,  without  a  word  to 
explain  what  the  circumstances  were  which  had  decided 
Miss  Fairlie  to  accept  Sir  Percival  Glyde  in  one  short  week 
from  the  time  when  1  had  last  seen  her. 

At  a  later  period,  the  cause  of  this  sudden  determination 
was  fully  explained  to  me.  It  is  not  my  business  to  relate 
it  imperfectly,  on  hearsay  evidence.  The  circumstances 
came  within  the  personal  experience  of  Miss  Halcombe; 
and,  when  her  narrative  succeeds  mine,  she  will  describe 
them  in  every  particular,  exacitly  as  they  happened.  In 
the  meantime,  the  plain  duty  for  me  to  perform — before  1, 
in  my  turn,  lay  down  my  pen  and  withdraw  from  the  story 
— is  to  relate  the  one  remaining  event  connected  with  Miss 
Fairlie's  proposed  marriage  in  which  1  was  concerned, 
namely,  the  drawing  of  the  settlement. 

It  is  impossible  to  refer  intelligibly  to  this  document, 
without  first  entering  into  certain  particulars  in  relation  to 
the  bride's  pecuniary  affairs.  1  will  try  to  make  my  ex- 
planation briefly  and  plainly,  and  to  keep  it  free  from  pro- 
fessional obscurities  and  technicalities.  The  matter  is  of 
the  utmost  importance.  I  warn  all  readers  of  these  lines 
that  Miss  Fairlie's  inheritance  is  a  very  serious  part  of  Miss 
Fairlie's  story;  and  that  Mr.  Gilmore's  experience,  in  this 
particular,  must  be  their  experience  also,  if  they  wish  to 
understand  the  narratives  which  are  yet  to  come. 

Miss  Fairlie's  expectations,  then,  were  of  a  twofold  kind; 
comprising  her  possible  inheritance  of  real  property,  or 
land,  when  her  uncle  died,  and  her  absolute  inheritance  of 
personal  property,  or  money,  when  she  came  of  age. 

Let  us  take  the  land  first. 

In  the  time  of  Miss  Fairlie's  paternal  grandfather  (whom 


142  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

vre  will  call  Mr.  Fairlie  the  elder)  the  entailed  succession 
to  the  Limineridge  estate  stood  thus: 

Mr.  Fairlie,  the  elder,  died  and  left  three  sons,  Philip, 
Frederick,  and  Arthur.  As  eldest  son,  Philip  succeeded 
to  the  estate.  If  he  died  without  leaving  a  sou,  the  prop- 
erty went  to  the  second  brother,  Frederick.  And  if  Fred- 
erick died  also  without  leaving  a  son,  the  property  went  to 
the  third  brother,  Arthur, 

1-  As  events  turned  out,  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  died  leaving  an 
only  daughter,  the  Laura  of  this  story;  and  the  estate,  in 
consequence,  went,  in  course  of  law,  to  the  second  brother^ 
Frederick,  a  single  man.  The  third  brother,  Arthur,  had 
died  many  years  before  the  decease  of  Philip,  leaving  a  son 
and  a  daughter.  The  son,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  was 
drowned  at  Oxford.  His  death  left  Laura,  the  daughter 
of  Mr,  Philip  Fairlie,  presumptive  heiress  to  the  estate; 
with  every  chance  of  succeeding  to  it,  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  nature,  on  her  uncle  Frederick's  death,  if  th'>  said  Fred- 
erick died  without  leaving  male  issue. 

Except  in  the  event,  then,  of  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie^s 
marrying  and  leaving  an  heir  (the  two  very  last  things  in 
the  world  that  he  was  likely  to  do),  his  niece,  Laura,  would 
have  the  property  on  his  death;  possessing,  it  must  be  re- 
membered, nothing  more  than  a  life  interest  in  it.  If  she 
died  single,  or  died  childless,  the  estate  would  revert  to  her 
cousin  Magdalen,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Arthur  Fairlie.  If 
she  married,  with  a  proper  settlement — or,  in  other  words, 
with  the  settlement  1  meant  to  make  for  her — the  income 
from  the  estate  (a  good  three  thousand  a  year)  would,  dur- 
ing her  life-time,  be  at  her  own  disposal.  If  she  died  before 
her  husband,  he  would  naturally  expect  to  be  left  in  the 
enjoyment  of  the  income,  for  his  life-time.  If  she  had  » 
son,  that  son  would  be  the  heir,  to  the  exclusion  of  her 
cousin  Magdalen.  Thus,  Sir  Percival's  prospects  in  mar- 
rying Miss  Fairlie  (so  far  as  his  wife's  expectations  from 
real  property  were  concertied)  promised  him  these  two  ad- 
vantages, on  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie's  death:  first,  the  use 
of  three  thousand  a  year  (by  his  wife's  permission,  while 
she  lived,  and,  in  his  own  right,  on  her  death,  if  he  sur- 
vived her);  and,  secondl}',  the  inheritance  of  Limmeridge 
for  his  son,  if  he  had  one. 

So  much  for  the  landed  property,  and  for  the  disposal  of 
the  income  from  it,  on  the  occasion  of  Miss  Fairlie's  mar- 


THE    WOMAN"    TN"    WHITE.  143 

nage.  Thus  far,  no  difficulty  or  difference  of  opinion  on 
the  lady's  settlement  was  at  all  likely  to  arise  between  Sir 
Percival's  lawyer  and  myself. 

The  personal  estate,  or,  in  other  words,  the  money  to 
which  Miss  Fairlie  would  become  entitled  on  reaching  the 
age  of  twenty-one  years,  is  the  next  point  to  consider. 

This  part  of  her  inheritance  was,  in  itself,  a  comfortable 
little  fortune.  It  was  derived  under  her  father's  will,  and 
it  amounted  to  the  sum  of  twenty  thousand  pounds.  Be- 
sides this,  she  had  a  life  interest  in  ten  thousand  pounds 
more;  which  latter  amou]jt  was  to  go,  on  her  decease,  to 
her  aunt  Eleanor,  her  father's  only  sister.  It  will  greatly 
assist  in  setting  the  family  affairs  before  the  reader  in  the 
clearest  possible  light,  if  I  stop  here  for  a  moment  to  ex- 
plain why  the  aunt  had  been  l^ept  waiting  for  her  legacy 
until  the  death  of  the  niece. 

Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  had  lived  on  excellent  terms  with  his 
sister  Eleanor,  as  long  as  she  remained  a  single  woman. 
But  when  her  marriage  tooii  place,  somewhat  late  in  life, 
and  when  that  marriage  united  her  to  an  Italian  gentleman, 
named  Fosco— or,  rathe, r  to  an  Italian  nobleman,  seeing 
that  he  rejoiced  in  the  title  of  Count — Mr.  Fairlie  disap- 
proved of  her  conduct  so  strongly  that  he  ceased  to  hold  any 
communication  with  her,  and  even  went  the  length  of  strik- 
ing her  name  out  of  his  will.  The  other  members  of  the 
family  all  thought  this  serious  manifestation  of  resentment 
at  his  sister's  marriage  more  or  less  unreasonable.  Count 
Fosco,  though  not  a  rich  man,  was  not  a  penniless  advent- 
urer either.  He  had  a  small,  but  sufficient  income  of  his 
own;  he  had  lived  many  years  in  England;  and  he  held  an 
excellent  position  in  society.  These  recommendations, 
however,  availed  nothing  with  Mr.  Fairlie.  In  many  of 
his  opinions  he  was  an  Englishman  of  the  old  school;  and 
he  hated  a  foreigner,  simply  and  solely  because  he  was  a 
foreigner.  The  utmost  that  he  could  be  prevailed  on  to 
do,  in  after  years,  mainly  at  Miss  Fairlie's  intercession,  was 
to  restore  his  sister's  name  to  its  former  place  in  his  will, 
but  to  keep  her  waiting  for  her  legacy  by  giving  the  income 
of  the  money  to  his  daughter  for  life,  and  the  money  itself, 
if  her  aunt  died  before  her,  to  her  cousin  Magdalen.  Con- 
sidering the  relative  ages  of  the  two  ladies,  the  aunt's 
chance,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature,  of  receiving  the 
ten  thousaua  pounds,  was  thus  rendered  doubtful  in  the 


144  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

extreme;  and  Mine.  Fosco  resented  her  brother's  treatment 
of  her  as  unjustly  as  usual  in  such  cases,  by  refusing  to  see 
her  niece,  aud  declining  to  believe  that  Miss  Fairlie's  in- 
tercession had  ever  been  exerted  to  restore  her  name  to  Mr. 
Fairlie's  will. 

Such  was  the  history  of  the  ten  thousand  pounds.  Here, 
again,  no  difficulty  could  arise  with  Sir  Percival's  legal  ad- 
viser. The  income  would  be  at  the  wife's  disposal,  and  the 
principal  would  go  to  her  aunt,  or  her  cousin,  on  her  death. 

All  preliminary  explanations  being  now  cleared  out  of  the 
way,  I  come,  at  last,  to  the  real  knot  of  the  case — to  the 
twenty  thousand  pounds. 

This  sum  was  absolutely  Miss  Fairlie's  own,  on  her  com- 
pleting her  twenty-first  year;  and  the  whole  future  dispo- 
sition of  it  depended,  in  the  first  instance,  on  the  conditions 
I  could  obtain  for  her  in  her  marriage-settlement.  The 
other  clauses  contained  in  that  document  were  of  a  formal 
kind,  and  need  not  be  recited  here.  But  the  clause  relat- 
ing to  the  money  is  too  important  to  be  passed  over.  A 
few  lines  will  be  sufficient  to  give  the  necessary  abstract 
of  it. 

My  stipulation  in  regard  to  the  twenty  thousand  pounds 
was  simply  this:  The  whole  amount  was  to  be  settled  so 
as  to  give  the  income  to  the  lady  for  her  life;  afterward 
to  Sir  Percival  for  his  life;  and  the  principal  to  the  chil- 
dren of  the  marriage.  In  default  of  issue,  the  principal 
was  to  be  disposed  of  as  the  lady  might  by  her  will  direct, 
for  which  purpose  1  reserved  to  her  the  right  of  making  a 
will.  The  effect  of  these  conditions  may  be  thus  summed 
up:  If  Lady  Giyde  died  without  leaving  children,  her  half- 
sister.  Miss  Halcombe,  and  any  other  relatives  or  friends 
whom  she  might  be  anxious  to  benefit,  would,  on  her  hus- 
band's death,  divide  among  them  such  shares  of  her  money 
as  she  desired  them  to  have.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  she 
died,  leaving  children,  then  their  interest,  naturally  and 
necessarily,  superseded  all  other  interests  whatsoever. 
This  was  the  clause;  and  no  one  who  reads  it  can  fail,  1 
think,  to  agree  with  me  that  it  meted  out  equal  justice  to 
all  parties. 

We  shall  see  how  my  proposals  were  met  on  the  hus- 
band's side. 

Ac  the  time  when  Miss  ITalcombe's  letter  reached  me,  I 
<vas  even  more  busily  occupied  than  usual.     But  I  con- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  145 

trived  to  make  leisure  for  the  settlement.  I  had  drawn  it, 
and  had  sent  it  for  approval  to  Sir  Percivars  solicitor,  in 
less  than  a  week  from  the  time  when  Miss  Halcombe  had 
informed  nie  of  the  proposed  marriage. 

After  a  lapse  of  two  days,  the  document  was  returned  to 
me,  with  notes  and  remarks  of  the  baronet's  lawyer.  His 
objections,  in  general,  proved  to  be  of  the  most  trifling 
and  technical  kind,  until  he  came  to  the  clause  relating  to 
the  twenty  thousand  pounds.  Against  this  there  were 
double  lines  drawn  in  red  ink,  and  the  following  note  was 
appended  to  them: 

"  Not  admissible.  The  principal  to  go  to  Sir  Percival 
Glydo,  in  the  event  of  his  surviving  Lady  Glyde,  and  there 
being  no  issue.'' 

That  is  to  say,  not  one  farthing  of  the  twenty  thousand 
pounds  was  to  go  to  Miss  Halcombe,  or  to  any  other  rela- 
tive or  friend  of  Lady  Clyde's.  The  whole  sum,  if  she  left 
no  children,  was  to  slip  into  the  pockets  of  her  husband. 

The  answer  I  wrote  to  this  audacious  proposal  was  as 
short  and  sharp  as  I  could  make  it.  "  My  dear  sir.  Miss 
Fairlie's  settlement.  I  maintain  the  clause  to  which  you 
object,  exactly  as  it  stands.  Yours  trul3%"  The  rejoinder 
came  back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  "  My  dear  sir.  Miss 
Fairlie's  settlement.  I  maintain  the  red  ink  to  which  you 
object,  exactly  as  it  stands.  Yours  truly."  In  the  de- 
testable slang  of  the  day,  we  were  now  both  "  at  a  dead- 
lock," and  nothing  was  left  for  it  but  to  refer  to  our  clients 
on  either  side. 

As  matters  stood,  my  client — Miss  Fairlie  not  having  yet 
completed  her  twenty-first  year — was  her  guardian,  Mr. 
Frederick  Fairlie.  I  wrote  lay  that  day's  post  and  put  the 
case  before  him  exactly  as  it  stood;  not  only  urging  every 
argument  I  could  think  of  to  induce  him  to  maintain  the 
clause  as  I  had  drawn  it,  but  stating  to  him  plainly  the 
mercenary  motive  which  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  opposi- 
tion to  my  settlement  of  the  twenty  thousand  pounds.  The 
knowledge  of  Sir  Percival's  affairs  which  1  had  necessarily 
gained  when  the  provisions  of  the  deed  on  his  siile  were 
submitted  in  due  course  to  my  examination,  had  but  too 
plainly  informed  me  that  the  debts  on  his  estate  were  enor- 
mous, and  that  his  income,  though  nominally  a  large  one, 
was,  virtually,  for  a  man  in  his  position,  next  to  nothing. 
The  want  of  ready  money  was  the  practical  necessity  of  Sir 


146  THE    "WOMAN     IN     WHITF. 

Percival's  existence;  and  his  lawyer^s  noit;  on  tha  clause  in 
the  settlement  was  nothing  but  the  Trankly  eeltish  expres- 
sion of  it, 

Mr.  Fairlie's  answer  reached  me  'oy  return  of  post,  and 
proved  to  be  wandering  and  irre'evauo  in  the  extreme. 
Turned  into  plain  English,  it  practjcnlly  expressed  itself  to 
this  effect:  "  Would  dear  Giiiuoro  oe  so  very  obh'ging  as 
not  to  worry  his  friend  and  cx'wui  ?xt)out  such  a  trifle  as  a 
remote  contingency?  Was  it  lilfejy  tliat  a  young  woman 
of  twenty-one  would  die  bvYcre  d  man  oi  lorty-five,  and 
die  without  children?  On  l'.j3  other  hand,  in  such  a  mis- 
erable world  as  this,  was  il  possioie  lo  overestimate  the 
value  of  peace  and  quietne8&,'-  li  those  two  heavenly  bless- 
ings were  offered  in  excnange  for  sucn  an  earthly  trifle  as 
a  remote  chance  of  tvveniy  thousand  pounds,  was  it  not  a 
fair  bargain?     Surely,  yijs.     Tueu  why  not  make  it?" 

1  threw  the  letter  away  in  disgust.  Just  as  it  had  flut- 
tered to  the  ground,  there  was  aiiaocKat  my  door;  and  Sir 
Percival's  solicitor,  Mr.  Merriman,  was  shown  in.  There 
are  many  varieties  of  sharp  practitioners  in  this  world,  but. 
I  think,  the  hardest  of  all  to  deal  with  are  the  men  who 
overreach  you  under  the  disguise  of  inveterate  good-liumor. 
A  fat,  well-fed,  smiling,  friendly  man  of  business  is  of  ail 
parties  to  a  bargain  the  most  hopeless  to  deal  with.  Mr. 
Merriman  was  one  of  this  class. 

*'  And  how  is  good  Mr.  Gilmore?"  he  began,  all  in  a 
glow  with  the  warmth  of  his  own  amiabilit}'.  "  Glad  lo 
see  you,  sir,  in  such  excellent  health.  I  was  passing  your 
door;  and  I  thought  1  would  look  in,  in  case  you  might 
have  something  to  say  to  me.  Do — now  pray  do  let  us 
settle  this  little  difference  of  ours  by  word  of  mouth,  if  we 
can!     Have  you  heard  from  your  client  yet?" 

"  Yes.     Have  you  heard  from  yours?" 

"  My  dear,  good  sir!  1  wish  I  had  heard  from  him  to 
any  purpose — 1  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  the  responsibility 
was  off  my  shoulders;  but  he  is  obstinate — or,  let  me  rather 
say,  resolute— and  he  won't  take  it  off.  'Merriman,  I 
leave  details  to  you.  Do  what  you  think  right  for  my  in- 
terests; and  consider  me  as  having  personally  withdrawn 
from  the  business  until  it  is  all  over.'  Those  were  Sir  Per- 
cival's words  a  fortnight  ago;  and  all  I  can  get  him  to  do 
now  IS  to  repeat  them.  1  am  not  a  hard  man,  Mr.  Gil- 
more,  as  you  know.     Personally  aud  privately,  1  do  assure 


THE    WOMAN    IN-    WHITE.  14? 

you,  I  should  like  to  sponge  out  that  note  of  mine  at  this 
very  moment.  But  if  Sir  Percival  won't  go  into  the  mat- 
ter, if  Sir  Percival  will  blindly  leave  all  his  interests  in  my 
sole  care,  what  course  can  1  possibly  take  except  the  course 
of  asserting  them?  My  hands  are  bound — don't  you  see, 
my  dear  sir?— my  hands  are  bound." 

"  You  maintain  your  note  on  the  clause,  then,  to  the 
letter?"  1  said. 

"Yes — deuce  take  it!  1  have  no  other  alternative. "  He 
walked  to  the  fire-place  and  warmed  himself,  humming  the 
fag-end  of  a  tune  in  a  rich  convivial  bass  voice.  "  What 
does  your  side  say?"  he  went  on:  "  now  pray  tell  me — 
what  does  your  side  say?" 

I  was  ashamed  to  tell  him.  I  attempted  to  gain  time — 
nay,  I  did  worse.  My  legal  instincts  got  the  better  of  me; 
and  I  even  tried  to  bargain. 

"  Twenty  thousand  pounds  is  rather  a  large  sum  to  be 
given  up  by  the  lady's  friends  at  two  days'  notice,"  I  said. 

"  Very  true,"  replied  Mr.  Merriman,  looking  down 
thoughtfully  at  his  boots.  "  Properly  put,  sir — rnost  prop- 
erly put!" 

"  A  compromise,  recognizing  the  interests  of  the 
lady's  family  as  well  as  the  iutersts  of  the  husband, 
might  not,  perhaps,  have  frightened  my  client  quite 
so  much. "  I  went  on.  "Come!  come!  this  contingency 
resolves  itself  into  a  matter  of  bargaining  after  all.  What 
is  the  least  you  will  take?" 

"  The  least  we  will  take,"  said  Mr.  Merriman,  "  is  nine- 
teen thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  pounds  nine- 
teen shillings  and  eleven-pence  three  farthings.  Ua!  ha! 
ha!  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Gilmore.  1  must  have  my  little 
joke." 

"  Little  enough!"  Iremarked.  "  The  joke  is  just  worth 
the  odd  farthing  it  was  made  for." 

Mr.  Merriman  was  delighted.  He  laughed  over  my  re- 
tort till  the  room  rang  again.  I  was  not  half  so  good- 
humored,  on  my  side;  I  came  back  to  business,  and  closed 
the  interview. 

"  This  is  Friday,"  I  said.  "  Give  us  till  Tuesday  next 
for  our  final  answer." 

"  By  all  means,"  replied  Mr.  Merriman.  "  Longer,  my 
dear  sir,  if  you  like."  He  took  up  his  hat  to  go;  and  then 
addressed  me  again.     "By   the   way,"   he  said,  "your 


148  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

clients  in  Cumberland  have  not  heard  anything  more  of  the 
woman  who  wrote  the  anonymous  letter,  have  they?" 

"  Nothing  more,"  I  answered.  "  Have  you  found  no 
trace  of  her?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  my  legal  friend.  "  But  we  don't  de- 
spair. Sir  Percival  has  his  suspicions  that  Somebody  is 
keeping  her  in  hiding;  and  we  are  having  that  Somebody 
watched." 

"  You  mean  the  old  woman  who  was  with  her  in  Cum- 
berland," I  said. 

"  Quite  another  party,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Merriman. 
"  We  don't  happen  to  have  laid  hands  on  the  old  woman 
yet.  Our  Somebody  is  a  man.  We  have  got  him  close 
under  our  eye  here  in  Loudon;  and  we  strongly  suspect  he 
had  something  to  do  with  helping  her  in  the  first  instance 
to  escape  from  the  Asylum.  Sir  Percival  wanted  to  ques- 
tion him  at  once;  but  I  said,  '  No.  Questiouing  him  will 
only  put  him  on  his  guard:  watch  him,  and  wait.'  We 
shall  see  what  happens.  A  dangerous  woman  to  be  at 
large,  Mr.  Gilmore;  nobody  knows  what  she  may  do  next. 
1  wish  you  good-morning,  sir.  On  Tuesday  next  I  shall 
hope  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  from  you."  He  smiled 
amiably  and  went  out. 

My  mind  had  been  rather  absent  during  the  latter  part 
of  the  conversation  with  my  legal  friend.  1  was  so 
aiixious  about  the  matter  of  the  settlement,  that  I  had  lit- 
tle attention  to  give  to  any  other  subject;  and,  the  mo- 
ment I  was  left  alone  again,  I  began  to  think  over  what  my 
next  proceeding  ought  to  be. 

In  the  case  of  any  other  client,  I  should  have  acted  on 
my  instructions,  however  personally  distasteful  to  me,  and 
have  given  up  the  point  about  the  twenty  thousand  pounds 
on  the  spot.  But  1  could  not  act  with  this  business-like 
indifference  toward  Miss  Fairlie.  1  had  an  honest  feeling 
of  affection  and  admiration  for  her;  I  remembered  grate- 
fully that  her  father  had  been  the  kindest  patron  and  friend 
to  me  that  ever  man  had;  I  had  felt  toward  her,  while  I 
was  drawing  the  settlement,  as  I  might  have  felt,  if  I  had 
not  been  an  old  bachelor,  toward  a  daughter  of  my  own; 
and  I  was  determined  to  spare  no  personal  sacrifice  in  her 
service  and  where  her  interests  were  concerned.  Writing 
a  second  time  to  Mr.  Fairlie  was  not  to  be  thought  of;  it 
would  only  be  giving  him  a  second  opportunity  of  slipping. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  149 

through  my  fingers.  Seeing  him  and  personally  remon- 
straLing  with  him,  might  possibly  be  of  more  use.  The 
next  day  was  Saturday.  I  determined  to  taice  a  return 
ticket,  and  jolt  my  old  bones  down  to  Cumberland,  on  the 
chance  of  persuading  him  to  adopt  the  just,  the  independ- 
ent, and  ihe  honorable  course.  It  was  a  poor  chance 
enough,  no  doubt;  but,  when  I  had  tried  it,  my  conscience 
would  be  at  ease.  I  should  then  have  done  all  that  a  man 
in  my  position  could  do  to  serve  the  interests  of  my  old 
friend's  only  child. 

The  weather  on  Saturday  was  beautiful,  a  west  wind  and 
a  briglit  sun.  Having  felt  latterly  a  return  of  that  fullness 
and  oppression  of  the  head,  against  which  my  doctor  warned 
me  so  seriously  more  than  two  years  since,  I  resolved  to 
take  (he  opportunity  of  getting  a  little  extra  exercise,  by 
sending  my  bag  on  before  me,  and  walking  to  the  terminuti 
in  Euston  Square.  As  I  came  out  into  Holborn,  a  gentle- 
man, walking  by  rapidly,  stopped  and  spoke  to  me.  It  was 
Mr.  Walter  Hartright. 

If  he  had  not  been  the  first  to  greet  me,  1  should  cer- 
tainly have  passed  him.  He  was  so  changed  that  I  hardly 
knew  him  again.  His  face  looked  pale  and  haggard — his 
manner  was  hurried  and  uncertain — and  his  dress,  which  I 
remembered  as  neat  and  gentleman-like  when  1  saw  him 
at  Limmeridge,  was  so  slovenly  now,  that  1  should  really 
have  been  ashamed  of  the  appearance  of  it  on  one  of  my 
own  clerks. 

"  Have  you  been  long  back  from  Cumherland?"  he 
asked.  "  I  heard  from  Miss  Halcombe  lately.  I  am  aware 
that  Sir  Percival  Glyde's  explanation  has  been  considered 
satisfactory.  Will  the  marriage  take  place  soon?  Do  you 
happen  to  know,  Mr.  Gilmore?" 

tie  spoke  so  fast,  and  crowded  his  questions  together  sc 
strangely  and  confusedly,  that  1  could  hardly  follow  him. 
However  accidentally  intimate  he  might  have  been  with 
the  family  at  Limmeridge,  I  could  not  see  that  he  had  any 
right  to  expect  information  on  their  private  affairs;  and  I 
determined  to  drop  him,  as  easily  as  might  be,  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Miss  Fairlie's  marriage. 

"  Time  will  show,  Mr.  Hartright,''  I  said—"  time  will 
show.  I  dare  say  if  wo  look  out  for  the  marriage  in  the 
papers  we  shall  not  be  Ur  wrong.     Excuse  my  noticing  it 


160  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

— but  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  not  looking  so  well  as  yon  were 
when  we  last  met/' 

A  momentary  nervous  contraction  quivered  about  his  lips 
and  eyes,  and  made  me  half  reproach  myself  for  having 
answered  him  in  such  a  significantly  guarded  manner. 

"  1  had  no  right  to  ask  about  her  marriage,"  he  said^ 
bitterly.  "  I  must  wait  to  see  it  in  the  newspapers  like 
other  people.  Yes,"  he  went  on,  before  I  could  make  any 
apologies,  "  I  have  not  been  well  lately.  I  am  going  to 
another  country,  to  try  a  change  of  scene  and  occupation. 
Miss  Halcombe  has  kindly  assisted  me  with  her  influence, 
and  my  testimonials  have  been  found  satisfactory.  It  is 
a  long  distance  off — but  I  don't  care  where  1  go,  what  the 
climate  is,  or  how  long  1  am  away."  He  looked  about 
him,  while  he  said  this,  at  the  throng  of  strangers  passing 
us  by  on  either  side,  in  a  strange,  suspicious  manner,  as  if 
he  thought  that  some  of  them  might  be  watching  us. 

"  1  wish  you  well  through  it,  and  safe  back  again,"  I 
said;  and  then  added,  so  as  not  to  keep  iiini  altogether  at 
armVlength  on  the  subject  of  the  Fairlies,  "  1  am  going 
down  to  Limmeridge  to-day  on  business.  Miss  Halcombe 
and  Miss  Fairlie  are  away  just  now,  on  a  visit  to  some 
friends  in  Yorkshire." 

llis  eyes  brightened,  and  he  seemed  about  to  say  some- 
thing in  answer;  but  the  same  momentary  nervous  spasm 
crossed  his  face  again.  He  took  my  hand,  pressed  it  hard, 
and  disappeared  among  the  crowd,  without  saying  another 
word.  Though  he  was  little  more  than  a  stranger  i.o  me, 
1  waited  for  a  moment,  looking  after  him  almost  with  a 
feeling  of  regret.  I  had  gained,  in  my  profession,  siitMcient 
experience  of  young  men  to  know  what,  the  outward  signs 
and  tokens  were  of  their  beginning  to  go  wrong;  and,  when 
I  resumed  my  walk  to  the  railway,  I  am  sorry  to  say  1  felt 
more  than  doubtful  about  Mr.  Hartright's  future. 


IV. 


Leaving  by  an  early  train,  1  got  to  Limmeridge  in  time 
for  dinner.  The  house  was  oppressively  empty  and  dull. 
1  had  expected  that  good  Mrs.  Vesey  would  have  been  com- 
pany for  me  in  the  absence  of  the  young  ladies;  but  she 
was  cuutined  to  her  room  by  a  cold.     The  servants  were  so 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  151 

Surprised  at  seeing  me  that  they  hurried  and  bustled  ab- 
surdly, and  made  ail  sorts  of  annoying  mistakes.  Even 
the  butler,  who  was  old  enough  to  laave  known  better, 
brought  me  a  bottle  of  port  that  was  chilled.  The  reports 
of  Mr.  P'airlie's  health  were  just  as  usual;  and  when  I  sent 
up  a  message  to  announce  my  arrival,  I  was  told  that  he 
would  bo  delighted  to  see  me  the  next  morning,  but  that 
the  sudden  news  of  my  appearance  had  prostrated  him  with 
palpitations  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  The  wind  howled 
dismally  all  night,  and  strange  cracking  and  groaning 
noises  sounded  here,  there,  and  everywhere  in  the  empty 
house.  I  slept  as  wretchedly  as  possible;  and  got  up,  in 
a  mighty  bad  humor.,  to  breakfast  by  myself  the  next 
morning. 

At  ten  o'clock  1  was  conducted  to  Mr.  Fairlie's  apart- 
ments. He  was  in  his  usual  room,  his  usual  chair,  and  his 
usual  aggravating  state  of  mind  and  body.  When  1  went 
in,  his  valet  was  standing  before  him,  holding  up  for  in- 
spection a  heavy  volume  of  etchings,  as  long  and  as  broad 
as  my  office  writing-desk.  The  miserable  foreigner  grinned 
ill  the  most  abject  manner,  and  looked  ready  to  drop  with 
fatigue,  while  his  master  composedly  turned  over  the  etch- 
ings, and  brought  their  hidden  beauties  to  light  with  the 
help  of  a  magnifying-glass. 

"  You  very  best  of  good  old  friends,"  said  Mr.  Fairlie, 
leaning  back  lazily  before  he  could  look  at  me,  "  are  you 
quite  well?  How  nice  of  you  to  come  here  and  see  me  in 
my  solitude.     Dear  Gilmore!" 

1  had  expected  that  the  valet  would  be  dismissed  when  1 
appeared;  but  nothing  of  the  sort  happened.  There  he 
stood,  in  front  of  his  master's  chair,  trembling  under  the 
weight  of  the  etchings;  and  there  Mr.  Fairlie  sat,  serenely 
twirling  the  magnifying-glass  between  his  white  fingers  and 
thumbs. 

"  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you  on  a  very  important  mat- 
ter," I  said;  "  and  you  will  therefore  excuse  me,  if  I  sug- 
gest that  we  had  better  be  alone." 

The  unfortunate  valet  looked  at  me  gratefully.  Mr. 
Fairlie  faintly  repeated  my  last  three  words,  "  better  be 
alone,"  with  every  appearance  of  the  utmost  possible  aston- 
ishment. 

I  was  in  no  humor  for  trifling;  and  I  resolved  to  make 
him  understand  what  I  meant. 


159  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  Oblige  me  by  giving  that  man  permission  to  withdraw,*' 
I  said,  pointing  to  the  valet. 

Mr.  Fan-lie  arched  his  eyebrows,  and  pursed  tip  his  lips, 
in  sarcastic  surprise. 

"Man?"  he  repeated.  "You  provoking  old  Gil  more, 
what  can  you  possibly  mean  by  calling  him  a  man?  He's 
nothing  of  the  sort.  He  might  have  been  a  man  half  an 
hour  ago,  before  I  wanted  my  etchings;  and  he  may  be  a 
man  half  an  hour  hence,  when  I  don't  want  them  any 
longer.  At  present  he  is  simply  a  portfolio  stand.  Why 
object,  Gilmore,  to  a  portfolio  stand?" 

"  I  do  object.  For  the  third  time,  Mr.  Fairlie,  I  beg 
that  we  may  be  alone. ' ' 

My  tone  and  manner  left  him  no  alternative  but  to  com- 
ply with  my  request.  He  looked  at  the  servant,  and  point- 
ed peevishly  to  a  chair  at  his  side. 

"  Put  down  the  etchings  and  go  away,"  he  said. 
"  Don't  upset  me  by  losing  my  place.  Have  you,  or  have 
you  not,  lost  my  place?  Are  you  sure  you  have  not  ?  And 
have  you  put  my  hand-bell  quite  within  my  reach?  Yes? 
Then,  why  the  devil  don't  you  go?" 

The  valet  went  out.  Mr.  Fairlie  twisted  himself  round 
in  his  chair,  polished  the  raagnifyiug-glass  with  his  delicate 
cambric  handkerchief,  and  indulged  himself  with  a  side- 
long inspection  of  the  open  volume  of  etchings.  It  was 
not  easy  to  keep  my  temper  under  these  circumstances; 
but  1  did  keep  it. 

"  I  have  come  here  at  great  personal  inconvenience,"  I 
said,  "  to  serve  the  interests  of  your  niece  and  your  family; 
and  I  think  I  have  established  some  slight  claim  to  be  fav- 
ored with  your  attention  in  return." 

"  Don't  bully  me!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Fairlie,  falling  back 
helplessly  in  the  chair,  and  closing  his  eyes.  "  Please 
don't  bully  me.     I'm  not  strong  enough." 

1  was  determined  not  to  let  him  provoke  me,  for  Laura 
Fairlie's  sake. 

"  My  object,"  I  went  on,  "is  to  entreat  you  to  recon- 
sider your  letter,  and  not  to  force  me  to  abandon  the  just 
rights  of  your  niece,  and  of  all  who  belong  to  her.  Let 
me  state  the  case  to  you  once  more,  and  for  the  last  time." 

Mr.  Fairlie  shook  his  head  and  sighed  piteously. 

"  This  is  heartless  of  you,  Gilmore — very  heartless,"  he 
said.     "  Never  mind;  gq^on." 


TEE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  153 

I  put  all  the  points  to  him  carefully;  I  set  the  matter 
before  him  in  every  conceivable  light.  He  lay  back  in  the 
ihuir  the  whole  time  1  was  speaking,  with  his  eyes  closed. 
VViien  1  iiad  done,  he  opened  them  indolently,  took  his  sil- 
ver smelling-bottle  from  the  table,  and  snitfed  at  it  with  an 
air  of  gentle  relish. 

"  Good  Gilmore!"  he  said,  between  the  sniffs,  "  how 
very  nice  this  is  of  you!  How  you  reconcile  one  to  human 
nature!'* 

"  Give  me  a  plain  answer  to  a  plain  question,  Mr.  Fair- 
he.  I  tell  you  again,  Sir  Percival  Glyde  has  uo  shadow 
of  a  claim  to  expect  more  than  the  income  of  the  money. 
The  money  itself,  if  your  niece  has  no  children,  ought  to 
be  under  her  control,  and  to  return  to  her  family.  If  you 
stand  firm.  Sir  Percival  must  give  way — he  must  give  wav, 
I  tell  you,  or  he  exposes  himself  to  the  base  imputation  of 
marrying  Miss  Fairlie  entirely  from  mercenary  motives. 

Mr.  Fairlie  shook  the  silver  smelling-bottle  at  me  play- 
fully. 

"  You  dear  old  Gilmore;  how  you  do  hate  rank  and 
family,  don't  you?  How  you  detest  Glyde,  because  he 
happens  to  be  a  baronet.  What  a  Radical  you  are — oh, 
dear  me,  what  a  Radical  you  are!" 

A  Radical!  !  !  I  could  put  up  with  a  good  deal  of  prov- 
ocation, but,  after  holding  the  soundest  Conservative 
principles  all  my  life,  I  could  not  put  up  with  being  called 
a  Radical.  My  blood  boiled  at  it — 1  started  out  of  my 
chair — I  was  speechless  with  indignation. 

"Don't  shake  the  room!"  cried  Mr.  Fairlie — "for 
Heaven's  sake,  don't  shake  the  room!  Worthiest  of  all 
possible  Gilmores,  I  meant  no  offense.  My  own  views  are 
so  extremely  liberal  that  I  think  1  am  a  Radical  myself. 
Yes.  We  are  a  pair  of  Radicals.  Please  don't  be  angry, 
I  caa't  quarrel — I  haven't  stamina  enough.  Shall  we  drop 
the  subject?  Yes.  Come  and  look  at  these  sweet  etchings. 
Do  let  me  teach  you  to  understand  the  heavenly  pearliness 
of  these  lines.     Do,  now,  there's  a  good  Gilmore!" 

While  he  was  maundering  on  in  this  way  I  was,  fortu- 
nately for  my  own  self-respect,  returning  to  my  senses. 
When  I  spoke  again  I  was  composed  enough  to  treat  his 
impertinence  with  the  silent  contempt  that  it  deserved. 

"You  are  entirely  wrong,  sir,"  I  said,  "in  supposing 
that  1  speak  from  any  prejudice  against  Sir  Percival  Glyde. 


154  THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

I  may  regret  that  he  has  so  unreservedly  resigned  hiraselt 
in  this  matter  to  his  lawyer's  direction  as  to  maiie  au}  ap- 
peal to  himself  impossible;  but  lata  not  prejudiced  against 
him.  What  I  have  said  would  equally  apply  to  any  other 
man  in  his  situation,  high  or  low.  The  pciaciplo  1  main- 
tain is  a  recognized  principle.  If  you  were  to  apply  at  the 
nearest  town  here,  to  the  first  respectable  solicitor  you  could 
find,  he  would  tell  you,  as  a  stranger,  what  1  tell  you,  as  a 
friend.  He  would  inform  you  that  it  is  against  all  rule  to 
abandon  the  lady's  money  entirely  to  the  man  she  marries. 
He  would  decline,  on  grounds  of  common  legal  caution,  to 
give  the  husband,  under  any  circumstances  whatever,  an 
interest  of  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  liis  wife's  death." 

"  Would  he  really,  Gilmore?"  said  Mr.  Fairhe.  *'  If 
he  said  anything  half  so  horrid,  I  do  assure  you  I  should 
tinkle  my  bell  for  Louis,  and  have  him  sent  out  of  the 
house  immediately." 

"  You  shall  not  irritate  me,  Mr.  Fairlie — for  your  niece's 
sake  and  for  her  father's  sake,  you  shall  not  irritate  me. 
You  shall  take  the  whole  responsibility  of  this  discreditable 
settlement  on  your  own  shoulders  before  I  leave  the  room.  " 

*'  Don't! — now  please  don't!"  said  Mr.  Fairlie.  "  Think 
how  precious  your  time  is,  Gilmore;  and  don't  throw  it 
away.  I  would  dispute  with  you  if  1  could,  but  I  can't — I 
haven't  stamina  enough.  You  want  to  upset  me,  to  upset 
yourself,  to  upset  Glyde,  and  to  upset  Laura;  and — oh, 
dear  me! — all  for  the  sake  of  the  very  last  thing  in  the 
world  that  is  likely  to  happen.  No,  dear  friend — in  the  in- 
terests of  peace  and  quietness,  positively  No!" 

"  I  am  to  understand  then,  that  you  hold  by  the  deter- 
mination expressed  in  your  letter?" 

"  Yes,  please.  So  glad  we  understand  each  other  at 
last.     Sit  down  again — do!" 

I  walked  at  once  to  the  door;  and  Mr.  Fairlie  resignedly 
*'  tinkled  "  his  hand-bell.  Before  I  left  the  room  I  turned 
round  and  addressed  him  for  the  last  time. 

"Whatever  happens  in  the  future,  sir, "  I  said,  "re- 
member that  my  plain  duty  of  warning  you  has  been  per- 
formed. As  the  faithful  friend  and  servant  of  your  family, 
I  tell  you,  at  parting,  that  no  daughter  of  mine  siiould  be 
married  to  any  man  alive  under  such  a  settlement  as  you 
^re  forcing  me  to  make  for  Miss  Fairlitj, " 


THR    WOMAN-    IK    WHITE.  165 

The  door  opened  behind  me,  and  the  valet  stood  waiting 
on  the  tlireshokl. 

"  Louis,"  said  Mr.  Fairlie,  "  show  Mr.  Gilmore  out, 
and  then  come  back  and  hold  up  my  etchings  for  me 
again.  Make  them  give  yon  a  good  lunch  down-stairs. 
JJo,  Gilmore,  make  my  idle  beasts  of  servants  give  you  a 
good  lunch!" 

I  was  too  much  disgusted  to  reply;  1  turned  on  my  heel, 
and  left  him  in  silence.  There  was  an  up  train  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon;  and  by  that  train  1  returned  to 
London. 

On  the  Tuesday  I  sent  in  the  altered  settlement,  which 
practically  disinherited  the  very  persons  whom  Miss  Fair- 
lie's  own  lips  had  informed  me  she  was  most  anxious  to 
benefit.  I  had  no  choice.  Another  lawyer  would  have 
drawn  up  the  deed  if  I  had  refused  to  undertake  it. 

My  task  is  done.  My  personal  share  in  the  events  of  the 
family  story  extends  no  further  than  the  point  which  1  have 
just  reached.  Other  pens  than  mine  will  describe  the 
strange  circumstances  which  are  now  shortly  to  follow. 
Seriously  artrl  sorrowfully,  I  close  the  brief  record.  Serious- 
ly and  sorrowfully,  1  repeat  here  the  parting  words  that 
1  spoke  at  Linimeridge  House:— No  daughter  of  mine 
hliould  have  been  married  to  any  man  alive  under  such  a 
settlement  as  I  was  compelled  to  make  for  Laura  Fairlie. 


The  Story  continued  hij  Marian  Halcombe,  in  Extracts 
from  her  Diary. 

I. 

LiMMERIDGE  HoUSE,  NoV.  Sth. 
♦  ******! 

This  morning  Mr.  Gilmore  left  us. 

His  interview  with  Laura  had  evidently  grieved  and  sur- 
prised him  more  than  he  liked  to  confess.  I  felt  afraid, 
from  his  look   and  manner  when  we  parted,  that  she  might 

f  The  passages  omitted,  here  and  elsewhere,  in  Miss  Halcombe's 
Dinry,  are  only  those  which  bear  no  reference  to  Miss  Fairlie  or  to 
any  of  the  pei'soas  with  whom  she  is  associated  in  these  pages. 


156  THE    WOMAK    IN    WHITE. 

have  inadvertently  betrayed  to  him  the  real  secret  of  her 
depression  and  my  anxiety.  This  doubt  grew  on  me  so, 
after  he  had  gone,  that  I  declined  riding  out  with  Sir  Per- 
cival,  and  went  up  to  Laura's  room  instead. 

1  have  been  sadly  distrustful  of  myself,  in  this  difficult 
and  lamentable  matter,  ever  since  1  Eound  out  my  own  ig- 
lorance  of  the  strength  of  Laura's  unhappy  attachment. 
I  ought  to  have  known  that  the  delicacy  and  forbearance 
and  sense  of  honor  which  drew  me  to  poor  Hartright,  and 
made  me  so  sincerely  admire  and  i*espect  him,  were  just  the 
qualities  to  appeal  most  irresistibly  to  Laura's  natural 
sensitiveness  and  natural  generosity  of  nature.  And  yet, 
until  she  opened  her  heart  to  me  of  her  own  accord,  I  had 
no  suspicion  that  this  new  feeling  had  taken  root  so  deeply. 
1  once  thought  time  and  care  might  remove  it.  I  now  fear 
that  it  will  remain  with  her  and  alter  her  for  life.  The 
discovery  that  i  have  committed  such  an  error  in  judgment 
as  this  makes  me  hesitate  about  everytliing  else.  I  hesi- 
tate about  Sir  Percival,  in  the  face  of  the  plainest  proofs. 
I  hesitate  even  in  speaking  to  Laura,  On  this  very  morn- 
ing, 1  doubted,  with  my  hand  on  the  door,  whether  1 
should  ask  her  the  questions  I  had  come  to  put,  or  not. 

When  I  went  into  her  room,  I  found  her  walking  up  and 
down  in  great  impatience.  She  looked  flushed  and  excited; 
and  she  came  forward  at  once,  and  spoke  to  me  before  I 
could  open  my  lips. 

"  I  wanted  you,"  she  said.  "  Come  and  sit  down  on 
the  sofa  with  me.  Marian!  I  can  bear  this  no  longer — I 
must  and  will  end  if 

There  was  too  much  color  in  her  cheeks,  too  much  energy 
in  her  manner,  too  much  firmness  in  her  voice.  The  little 
book  of  Hartright's  drawings — the  fatal  book  that  she  will 
dream  over  whenever  she  is  alone — was  in  one  of  her  hands. 
I  began  by  gently  and  firmly  taking  it  from  her,  and  put- 
ting it  out  of  sight  on  a  side-table. 

"■  Tell  me  quietly,  my  darling,  what  you  wish  to  do,'* .. 
said.     "  Has  Mr.  Gil  more  been  advising  you?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,  not  in  what  I  am  thinking 
of  now.  He  was  very  kind  and  good  to  me,  Marian,  and 
I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  distressed  him  by  crying,  lam  mis- 
erably helpless;  1  can't  control  myself.  For  my  own  sake 
and  for  all  our  sakes,  I  must  have  courage  enough  to  end 
it.'' 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  157 

"  Do  you  mean  courage  enough  to  claim  your  release?'* 
1  asked. 

*'  No/'  she  said,  simply.  "  Courage,  dear,  to  tell  the 
truth.'' 

She  put  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  rested  her  head 
quietly  on  my  bosom.  On  the  opposite  wall  hung  the  min- 
iature portrait  of  her  father.  I  bent  over  her,  and  saw  that 
she  was  looking  at  it  while  her  head  lay  on  my  breast. 

*'  1  can  never  claim  release  from  my  engagement,'^ 
she  went  on.  "  Whatever  way  it  ends,  it  must  end  wretch 
edly  for  me.  All  ]  can  do,  Marian,  is  not  to  add  the  re- 
membrance that  1  have  broken  my  promise  and  forgotten 
my  father's  dying  words,  to  make  that  wretchedness 
worse." 

"  What  is  it  you  propose,  then?"  I  asked. 

"  To  tell  Sir  Percival  Glyde  the  truth,  with  my  own 
lips,"  she  answered,  "  and  to  let  him  release  me,  if  he 
will,  not  because  i  ask  him,  but  because  he  knows  all." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Laura,  by  '  all?'  Sir  Percival 
will  know  enough  (he  has  told  me  so  himself)  if  he  knowa 
that  the  engagement  is  opposed  to  your  own  wishes.'* 

"  Can  I  tell  him  that,  when  the  engagement  was  made 
for  me  by  my  father,  with  my  own  consent?  I  should  have 
kept  my  promise;  not  happily,  1  am  afraid,  but  still  con- 
tentedly " — she  stopped,  turned  her  face  to  me,  and  laid 
her  cheek  close  against  mine — "1  should  have  kept  my 
engagement,  Marian,  if  another  love  had  not  grown  up  in 
my  heart,  which  was  not  there  when  1  first  promised  to  be 
Sir  Percival's  wife." 

"  Laura!  you  will  never  lower  yourself  by  making  a  con- 
fession to  him?" 

"  I  shall  lower  myself,  indeed,  if  I  gain  my  release  by 
hiding  from  him  what  he  has  a  right  to  know." 

"  He  has  not  the  shadow  of  a  right  to  know  it!" 

"  Wrong,  Marian,  wrong!  I  ought  to  deceive  no  one — 
east  of  all  the  man  to  whom  my  father  gave  me,  and  to 
A'hom  I  gave  myself."  She  put  her  lips  to  mine,  and 
kissed  me.  "  My  own  love,"  she  said,  softly,  "  you  are  so 
much  too  fond  of  me  and  so  much  too  proud  of  me,  that 
you  forget,  in  my  case,  what  you  would  remember  in  your 
own.  Better  that  Sir  Pertnval  should  doubt  my  motives 
and  u'^sjudge  my  conduct,  if  he  will,  than  that  I  should  be 


158  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

first  false  to  him  in  thought,  and  then  mean  enough  to 
serve  my  own  interests  by  hiding  the  falsehood."' 

I  held  her  away  from  me  in  astonishment.  For  the  first 
time  in  our  lives,  we  had  changed  places;  the  resuhiLion 
was  all  on  her  side,  the  hi^eiiation  all  on  mine.  1  looked 
into  the  pale,  quiet,  resigned  young  face;  I  saw  the  pure, 
innocent  heart  in  the  loving  eyes  that  looked  back  at  me — 
and  the  poor  worldly  cautions  and  objections  that  rose  to 
my  lips,  dwindled  and  died  away  in  their  own  emptiness. 
1  hung  my  head  in  silence.  In  her  place,  the  despicably 
small  pride  which  makes  so  many  women  deceitful,  would 
have  been  my  pride,  and  would  have  made  me  deceitful' 
too. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Marian,''  she  said,  mistaking 
my  silence. 

1  onIy*answered  by  drawing  her  close  to  me  again.  1  was 
afraid  of  crying  if  I  spoke.  My  tears  do  not  tiow  so  easily 
as  they  ought — they  come  almost  like  men's  tears,  with 
sobs  that  seem  to  tear  me  in  pieces,  and  that  frighten  every 
one  about  me. 

"  1  have  thought  of  this,  love,  for  many  days,"  she  went 
on,  twining  and  twisting  my  hair  with  that  childish  rest- 
lessness in  her  fingers,  which  poor  Mrs.  Vesey  still  tries  so 
patiently  and  so  vainly  to  cure  her  of-—"  I  have  thought  of 
it  very  seriously, ^ and  1  can  be  sure  of  my  courage,  when 
my  own  conscience  tells  me  i  am  right.  Let  me  speak 
to  him  to-morrow — in  your  presence,  Marian.  I  will 
say  nothing  that  is  wrong,  nothing  that  you  or  1  need  be 
ashamed  of — but  oh,  it  will  ease  my  heart  so  to  end  this 
miserable  concealment!  Only  let  me  know  and  feel  that  1 
have  no  deception  to  answer  for  on  my  side;  and  then, 
when  he  has  heard  what  I  have  to  say,  let  him  act  toward 
me  as  he  will." 

She  sighed,  and  put  her  head  back  in  its  old  position  on 
my  bosom.  Sad  misgivings  about  what  the  end  would  be, 
weighed  upon  my  mind;  but,  still  distrusting  myself,  I  told 
her  that  I  would  do  as  she  wished.  She  thanked  me,  and 
we  passed  gradually  into  talking  of  other  things. 

At  dinner  she  joined  us  again,  and  was  more  easy  and 
more  herself  with  Sir  Percival  than  I  had  seen  her  yet. 
In  the  evening  she  went  to  the  piano,  choosing  new  muFin 
of  the  dexterous,  tuneless,  florifl  kind.  The  lovely  olu 
melodies  of  Mozart,  which  poor  llartright  was  so  fond  of, 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHTTP;.  159 

she  has  never  piayed  since  he  left.  The  book  is  no  longer 
in  the  music-stand.  She  took  the  volume  away  herself,  so 
that  nobody  might  find  it  out  and   ask  her  to  play  from  it. 

I  had  no  opportunity  of  discovering  wliether  her  purpose 
of  the  morning  had  changed  or  not,  until  she  wished  Sir 
Percival  good-night — and  then  her  own  words  informed, 
me  that  it  was  unaltered.  She  said,  very  quietly,  that  she 
wished  to  speak  to  him  after  breakfast,  and  that  he  would 
find  her  in  her  sitting-room  with  me.  fie  changed  color 
at  those  words,  and  I  felt  his  hand  trembling  a  little  when 
it  came  to  my  turn  to  take  it.  The  event  of  the  next 
morning  would  decide  his  future  life;  and  he  evidently 
knew  it. 

I  went  in,  as  usual,  through  the  door  between  our  two 
bedrooms,  to  bid  Laura  good-night  before  she  went  to  sleep. 
Li  stooping  over  her  to  kiss  her,  I  saw  the  little  book  of 
llartright's  drawings  half  hidden  under  her  pillow,  just  in 
the  place  where  she  used  to  hide  her  favorite  toys  when  she 
was  a  cnild.  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  say  any- 
thing; but  I  pointed  to  the  book  and  shook  my  head.  She 
reached  both  hands  up  to  my  cheeks,  and  drew  my  face 
down  to  hers  till  our  lips  met. 

"  Leave  it  there  to-night,"  she  whispered;  "  to-morrow 
may  be  cruel,  and  may  maka  me  say  good-bye  to  it  for- 
ever/* 

Mh. — The  first  event  of  the  morning  was  not  of  a  kind 
to  raise  my  spirits;  a  letter  arrived  for  me,  from  poor  Wal- 
ter Hartright.  It  is  the  answer  to  mine,  describing  the 
manner  in  which  Sir  Percival  cleared  himself  of  the  sus- 
picions raised  by  Anne  Catherick's  letter.  He  writes 
shortly  and  bitterly  about  Sir  Percival's  explanations;  only 
saying  that  he  has  no  right  to  offer  an  opinion  on  the  con- 
duct of  those  who  are  above  him.  This  is  sad;  but  his  oc- 
casional references  to  himself  grieve  me  still  more.  He 
says  that  the  effort  to  return  to  his  old  habits  and  pursuits 
grows  harder  instead  of  easier  to  him,  every  day;  an  I  he 
implores  me,  if  1  have  any  interest,  to  exert  it  to  get  him 
employment  that  will  necessitate  his  absence  from  England, 
and  take  him  among  new  scenes  and  new  people.  I  have 
been  made  all  the  readier  to  comply  with  this  request,  by 
a  passage  at  the  end  of  his  letter,  which  has  almost 
tilarmed  me. 


1(50  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

After  mentioning  tliat  he  has  neither  seen  nor  heard  any. 
thhig  of  Anne  Catherick,  he  suddenly  breaks  off,  and  hints 
in  the  most  abrupt,  mysterious  manner,  that  he  has  been 
perpetually  watched  and  followed  by  strange  men  ever 
since  he  returned  to  London.  He  acknowledges  that  ho 
can  not  prove  this  extraordinary  suspicion  by  fixing  on  any 
particular  persons;  but  he  declares  that  the  suspicion  itself 
is  present  to  him  night  and  day.  This  has  frightened  me, 
because  it  looks  as  if  his  one  fixed  idea  about  Laura  was 
becoming  too  much  for  his  mind.  1  will  write  immediately 
to  some  of  my  mother's  influential  old  friends  in  London,, 
and  press  his  claims  on  their  notice.  Change  of  scene  and 
change  of  occupation  may  really  be  the  salvation  of  him  at 
this  crisis  in  his  life. 

Greatly  to  my  relief,  Sir  Percival  sent  an  apology  for 
not  joining  us  at  breakfast.  He  had  taken  an  early  cup 
of  coffee  in  his  own  room,  and  he  was  still  engaged  there 
in  writing  letters.  At  eleven  o^clock,  if  that  hour  was 
convenient,  he  would  do  himself  the  honor  of  waiting  on 
Miss  Fairlie  and  Miss  Halcombe. 

My  eyes  were  on  Laura's  face  while  the  message  was  be- 
ing delivered.  1  had  found  her  unaccountably  quiet  and 
composed  on  going  into  her  room  in  the  morning;  and  so 
she  remained  all  through  breakfast.  Even  when  we  were 
sitting  together  on  the  sofa  in  her  room,  waiting  for  Sir 
Percival,  she  still  preserved  her  self-control. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  Marian,''  was  all  she  said:  "  I 
may  forget  myself  with  an  old  friend  like  Mr.  Gilmore,  or 
with  a  dear  sister  like  you;  but  1  will  not  forget  myself 
with  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

I  looked  at  her,  and  listened  to  her  in  silent  surprise. 

Through  all  the  years  of  our  close  intimacy,  this  passive 

force  in  her  character  had  been  hidden  from  me — hidden 

3ven  from  herself,  till  love  found  it,  and  suffering  called 

t  forth. 

As  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  struck  eleven,  Sir  Per- 
cival knocked  at  the  door,  and  came  in.  There  was  sup- 
pressed anxiety  and  agitation  in  every  line  of  his  face. 
The  dry,  sharp  cough,  which  teases  him  at  most  times, 
seemed  to  be  troubling  him  more  incessantly  than  ever. 
He  sat  down  opposite  to  us  at  the  table,  and  Laura  re- 
mained by  me.  1  looked  attentively  at  them  both,  and  he 
was  the  palest  of  the  two. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  l6J 

He  said  a  few  uiiimportaut  words,  with  a  visible  elTon 
to  preserve  his  customary  ease  of  manner.  But  his  voice 
was  not  to  be  steadied,  and  the  restless  uneasiness  in  hh 
eyes  was  not  to  be  concealed.  He  must  have  felt  this 
himself;  for  he  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and 
gave  up  even  the  attempt  to  hide  his  embarrassment  any 
longer. 

There  was  just  one  moment  of  dread  silence  before  Laura 
addressed  him. 

"  1  wish  to  speak  to  you.  Sir  Percival,"  she  said,  "  on  a 
subject  that  is  very  important  to  us  both.  My  sister  is 
here,  because  her  presence  helps  me,  and  gives  me  confi- 
dence. She  has  not  suggested  one  word  of  what  I  am  go- 
ing to  say:  1  speak  from  my  own  thoughts,  not  from  hers. 
I  am  sure  you  will  be  kind  enough  *d  uudsrstand  that,  be- 
fore 1  go  any  further?" 

Sir  Percival  bowed.  She  had  proceeded  thus  far  with 
perfect  outward  tranquillity,  and  perfect  propriety  of  man- 
ner. She  looked  at  him,  and  he  looked  at  her.  They 
seemed,  at  the  outset  at  leas.t,  resolved  to  understand  each 
other  plainly. 

"  I  have  heard  from  Marian,"  she  went  on,  "  that  I  have 
only  to  claim  my  release  from  our  engagement,  to  obtain 
that  release  from  you.  It  was  forbearing  and  generous  on 
your  part,  Sir  Percival,  to  send  me  such  a  message.  It  is 
only  doing  you  justice  to  say  that  I  am  grateful  for  the  offer; 
and  1  hope  and  believe  that  it  is  only  doing  myself  justice 
to  tell  you  that  1  decline  to  accept  it." 

His  attentive  face  relaxed  a  little.  But  1  saw  one  of  his 
feet,  softly,  quietly,  incessantly  beating  on  the  carpet  under 
the  table;  and  I  felt  that  he  was  secretly  as  anxious  as  ever. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten,"  she  said,  "  that  you  asked  my 
father's  permission  before  you  honored  me  with  a  proposal 
of  marriage.  Perhaps  you  have  not  forgotten,  either, 
what  I  said  when  I  consented  to  our  engagement?  I  vent- 
ured to  tell  you  that  my  father's  influence  and  advice  had 
mainly  decided  me  to  give  yoa  my  promise.  I  was  guided 
by  my  father,  because  I  had  always  found  him  the  truest 
of  all  advisers,  the  best  and  fondest  of  all  protectors  and 
friends.  1  have  lost  him  now;  1  have  only  his  memory  to 
love;  but  my  faith  in  that  dear  dead  friend  has  never  bef-i 
shaken.     I  believe  at  this  moment,  as  truly  a,s  I  ever  b'?- 

6 


162  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

lieved,  that  he  knew  what  was  best,  and  that  his  hopes  and 
wishes  ought  to  be  my  hopes  and  wishes  too. ' ' 

Her  voice  trembled  for  the  first  time.  Her  restless 
fingers  stole  their  way  into  my  lap,  and  held  fast  by  one 
of  my  hands.  There  was  another  moment  of  silence,  and 
then  Sir  Percival  spoke. 

"  May  I  ask,''  he  said,  "if  1  have  ever  proved  myself 
unworthy  of  the  trust,  which  it  has  been  hitherto  my  great- 
est honor  and  greatest  happiness  to  possess?" 

"  1  have  found  nothing  in  your  conduct  to  blame,"  she 
answered.  "You  have  always  treated  me  with  the  same 
delicacy  and  the  same  forbearance.  You  have  deserved 
my  trust;  and,  what  is  of  far  more  importance  in  my  esti- 
mation, you  have  deserved  my  father's  trust,  out  of  which 
mine  grew.  You  have  given  me  no  excuse,  even  if  1  had 
wanted  to  find  one,  for  asking  to  be  released  from  my 
pledge.  What  I  have  said  so  far,  has  been  spoken  with 
the  wish  to  acknowledge  my  whole  obligation  to  you.  My 
regard  for  that  obligation,  my  regard  for  my  father's  mem- 
ory, and  my  regard  for  my  own  promise,  all  forbid  me  to 
set  the  example,  on  my  side,  of  withdrawing  from  our  pres- 
ent position.  The  breaking  of  our  engagement  must  be 
entirely  your  wish  and  your  act.  Sir  Percival — not  mine." 

The  uneasy  beating  of  his  foot  suddenly  stopped;  and  he 
leaned  forward  eagerly  across  the  table. 

"  My  act?"  he  said.  "  What  reason  can  there  be,  on 
•niy  side,  for  withdrawing?" 

1  heard  her  breath  quickening;  I  felt  her  hand  growing 
cold.  In  spite  of  what  she  had  said  to  me  when  we  were 
alone,  1  began  to  be  afraid  of  her.     I  was  wrong. 

"  A  reason  that  is  very  hard  to  tell  you,"  she  answered. 
"  There  is  a  change  in  me,  Sir  Percival — a  change  which 
is  serious  enough  to  justify  you,  to  yourself  and  to  me,  in 
breaking  off  our  engagement." 

liis  face  turned  so  pale  agiiin  that  even  his  lips  lost  their 
color.  He  raised  the  arm  which  lay  on  the  table;  turned 
a  little  away  in  his  chair;  and  supported  his  head  on  his 
hand,  so  that  his  profile  only  was  presented  to  us. 

"  What  change?"  he  asked.  The  tone  in  which  he  put 
the  question  jarred  on  me~there  was  something  painfully 
suppressed  in  it. 

She  sighed  heavily,  and  leaned  toward  me  a  little,  so  ae 
to  rest  her  shoulder  against  mine.     I  felt  her  trembling, 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  163 

and  tried  to  spare  her  by  speaking  myself.  She  stopped 
me  by  a  warning  pressure  of  her  hand,  and  then  addressed 
Sir  Percival  once  more;  but  this  time  without  looking  at 
him. 

"  I  have  heard,"  she  said,  "  and  I  believe  it,  that  the 
fondest  and  truest  of  all  affections  is  the  affection  which  a 
woman  ought  to  bear  to  her  husband.  When  our  engage- 
ment began,  that  affection  was  mine  to  give,  if  1  could, 
and  yours  to  win,  if  you  could.  Will  you  pardon  me,  and 
spare  me.  Sir  Percival,  if  I  acknowledge  that  it  is  not  so 
any  longer?" 

.  A  few  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  and  dropped  over  her 
cheeks  slowly,  as  she  paused  and  waited  for  his  answer. 
He  did  not  utter  a  word.  At  the  beginning  of  her  reply, 
he  had  moved  the  hand  on  which  his  head  rested,  so  that  it 
hid  his  face.  I  saw  nothing  but  the  upper  part  of  his  figure 
at  the  table.  Not  a  muscle  of  him  moved.  The  fingers  of 
the  hand  which  supported  his  head  were  dented  deep  in  his 
hair.  They  might  have  expressed  hidden  anger,  or  hid- 
den grief — it  was  hard  to  say  which — there  was  no  signifi- 
cant trembling  in  them.  There  was  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing,  to  tell  the  secret  of  his  thoughts  at  that  moment 
— the  moment  which  was  the  crisis  of  his  life  and  the  crisis 
of  hers. 

1  was  determined  to  make  him  declare  himself,  for 
Laura's  sake. 

"  Sir  Percival!"  I  interposed,  sharply,  "  have  you  noth- 
ing to  say,  when  my  sister  has  said  so  much?  More,  in 
my  opinion,"  I  added,  my  unlucky  temper  getting  the 
better  of  me,  "  than  any  man  alive,  in  your  position,  has 
a  right  to  hear  from  her. " 

That  last  rash  sentence  opened  a  way  for  him  by  which 
to  escape  me  if  he  chose;  and  he  instantly  took  advantage 
of  it. 

"  Pardon  me.  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said,  still  keeping 
his  hand  over  his  face — "  pardon  me,  if  I  remind  you  that 
1  have  claimed  no  such  right." 

The  few  plain  words  which  would  have  brought  him  back 
to  the  point  from  which  he  bad  wandered  were  just  on  my 
lips,  when  Laura  checked  me  by  speaking  again. 

"  1  hope  I  have  not  made  my  painful  acknowledgment 
in  vain,"  she  continued.  "  I  hope  it  has  secured  me  your 
entire  confidence  in  what  I  have  still  to  say?" 


164  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE, 

"Pray  be  assured  of  it."  He  made  that  brief  reply 
warmly;  dropping  his  hand  on  the  table  while  he  spoke, 
and  tinning  toward  us  again.  Whatever  outward  cliange 
had  passed  over  him,  was  gone  now.  His  face  was  eager 
and  expectant — it  expressed  nothing  but  the  most  intense 
anxiety  to  hear  her  next  words. 

"  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  I  have  not  spoken  from 
any  selfish  motive,"  she  said.  "  If  you  leave  me.  Sir  Per- 
cival,  after  what  you  have  just  heard,  you  do  not  leave  me 
to  marry  another  man — you  only  allow  me  to  remain  a 
single  woman  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  My  fault  toward  you 
has  begun  and  ended  in  my  own  thoughts.  It  can  never 
go  any  further.  No  word  has  passed — "  She  hesitated, 
in  doubt  about  the  expression  she  should  use  next;  hesi- 
tated, in  a  momentary  confusion  which  it  was  very  sad  and 
very  painful  to  see.  "  No  word  has  passed,^'  she  patiently 
and  resolutely  resumed,  "  between  myself  and  the  person 
to  whom  I  am  now  referring  for  the  first  and  last  lime  in 
your  presence,  of  my  feelings  toward  him,  or  of  his  feelings 
toward  me — no  word  ever  can  pass — neither  he  nor  I  are 
likely,  in  this  world,  to  meet  again.  I  earnestly  beg  you 
to  spare  me  from  saying  any  more,  and  to  believe  me,  on 
my  word,  in  what  I  have  just  (old  you.  It  is  the  trntii, 
Sir  Percival— the  truth  which  I  think  my  promised  hus- 
band has  a  claim  to  hear,  at  any  sacrifice  of  my  own  feel- 
ings. 1  trust  to  his  generosity  to  pardon  me,  and  to  his 
honor  to  keep  my  secret." 

"  Both  those  trusts  are  sacred  to  me,"  he  said,  "  and 
both  shall.be  sacredly  kept." 

After  answering  in  those  terms,  he  paused,  and  looked 
at  her,  as  if  he  was  waiting  to  hear  more. 

"  I  have  said  all  1  wish  to  say,"  she  added,  quietly — "  I 
have  said  more  than  enough  to  justify  you  in  withdrawing 
from  your  engagement." 

"  You  have  said  more  than  enough,"  he  answered,  "  to 
make  it  the  dearest  object  of  my  like  to  keep  the  engage- 
ment." With  those  words  he  rose  from  liis  chair,  and  ad- 
vanced a  few  steps  toward  the  place  where  she  was  sitting. 

She  started  violently,  and  a  faint  cry  of  surprise  escaped 
her.  Every  word  she  had  spoken  had  innocently  betrayed 
her  purity  and  truth  to  a  man  who  thoroughly  understood 
the  priceless  value  of  a  pure  and  true  woman.  Her  own 
noble  conduct  had  been  the  hidden  enemy,  throughout,  of 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  165 

all  the  hopes  she  had  trusted  to  it.  I  Imd  dreaded  this 
from  the  tirst.  1  would  have  prevented  it,  if  she  had 
allowed  me  the  smallest  chance  of  doing  so.  I  even  waited 
and  watched,  now,  when  the  harm  was  done,  for  a  word 
from  Sir  Peroival  that  would  give  me  the  opportunity  of 
putting  him  in  the  wrong. 

"  You  have  left  it  to  7ne,  Miss  Fairlie,  to  resign  you," 
he  continued.  "  I  am  not  heartless  enough  to  resign  a 
woman  who  has  just  shown  herself  to  be  the  noblest  of  her 
sex.^' 

He  spoke  with  such  warmth  and  feeling,  with  such  pas- 
sionate enthusiasm,  and  yet  with  such  perfect  delicacy, 
that  she  raised  her  head,  flushed  up  a  little,  and  looked  at 
him  with  sudden  animation  and  spirit. 

"  No!"  she  said,  firmly.  "  The  most  wretched  of  her 
sex,  if  she  must  give  herself  in  marriage  when  she  can  not 
give  her  love." 

"  May  she  not  give  it  in  the  future,"  he  asked,  '*  if  the 
one  object  of  her  husband's  life  is  to  deserve  it?'' 

"  Never!"  she  answered.  "  If  you  still  persist  in  main- 
taining our  engagement,  I  may  be  your  true  and  faithful 
wife.  Sir  Peroival — your  loving  wife,  if  I  know  my  own 
heart,  never!" 

She  looked  so  irresistibly  beautiful  as  she  said  those  brave 
words  that  no  man  alive  could  have  steeled  his  heart 
against  her.  I  tried  hard  to  feel  that  Sir  Porcival  was  to 
Olame,  and  to  say  so,  but  my  womanhood  would  pity  him, 
in  spite  of  myself. 

"I  gratefully  accept  your  faith  and  truth,"  he  said. 
"  The  least  that  you  can  offer  is  more  to  me  than  the  ut- 
most that  I  could  hope  for  from  any  other  woman  in  the 
world." 

Her  left  hand  still  held  mine;  but  her  right  hand  hung 
listlessly  at  her  side.  He  raised  it  gently  to  his  lips — 
touched  it  with  them,  rather  than  kissed  it — bowed  to  me 
— and  then,  with  perfect  delicacy  and  discretion,  silently 
quitted  the  room. 

She  neither  moved  nor  said  a  word,  when  he  was  gone — 
she  sat  by  me,  cold  and  still,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground.  I  saw  it  was  hopeless  and  useless  to  speak;  and  I 
only  put  my  arm  round  her,  and  held  her  to  mo  in  silence. 
We  remained  together  so,  for  what  seemed  a  long  and  weary 


166  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

time — so  long  and  so  weary,  that  1  grew  uneasy  and  spoke 
to  her  softly,  in  the  hope  of  producing  a  change. 

Tiie  sound  of  my  voice  seemed  to  startle  her  into  con- 
sciousness. She  suddenly  drew  herself  away  from  me,  and 
rose  to  her  feet. 

"  1  must  submit,  Marian,  as  well  as  I  can,"  she  said. 
"  My  new  life  has  its  hard  duties;  and  one  of  them  begins 
to-diiy." 

As  she  spoke,  she  went  to  a  side  table  near  the  window, 
on  which  her  sketching  materials  were  placed;  gathered 
tliem  together  carefully;  and  j)ut  them  in  a  drawer  of  her 
cabinet.  8he  locked  the  drawer,  and  brought  the  key  to 
me. 

"  I  must  part  from  everything  that  reminds  me  of  him," 
she  said.  "  Keep  the  key  wherever  you  please — 1  shall 
never  want  it  again." 

Before  I  could  say  a  word,  she  had  turiied  away  to  her 
book-case,  and  had  taken  from  it  the  album  that  contained 
Walter  Hartright's  drawings.  She  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment, holding  the  little  volume  fondly  in  her  hands — then 
lifted  it  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it 

"Oh,  Laura!  Laura!"  1  said,  not  angrily,  not  reprov- 
ingly— with  nothing  but  sorrow  in  my  voice,  and  nothing 
but  sorrow  in  my  heart. 

"  It  is  the  last  time,  Marian,"  she  pleaded.  "  1  am  bid- 
ding it  good-bye  forever." 

She  laid  the  book  on  the  table,  and  drew  out  the  comb 
that  fastened  her  hair.  It  fell,  in  its  matchless  beauty, 
over  her  back  and  shoulders,  and  dropped  round  her,  far 
below  her  waist.  She  separated  one  long,  thin  lock  from 
the  rest,  cut  it  off,  and  pinned  it  carefully,  in  the  form  of 
a  circle,  on  the  first  blank  page  of  the  album.  The  mo- 
ment it  was  fastened  she  closed  the  volume  hurriedly,  and 
place  it  in  my  hands. 

"  .You  write  to  him,  and  he  writes  to  you,"  she  said. 
"  While  I  am  alive,  if  he  asks  after  me,  always  tell  him  I  am 
well,  and  never  say  1  am  ludiappy.  Don't  distress  him,  Mari- 
an— for  my  sake,  don't  distress  him.  If  I  die  first,  promise 
you  will  give  him  this  little  book  of  his  drawings,  with  my 
hair  in  it.  There  can  be  no  harm,  when  I  am  gone,  in  tell- 
ing him  that  I  put  it  there  with  my  own  hands.  And  say 
— oh,  Marian,  say  for  me,  then,  what  I  can  never  say  for 
myself  — say  1  loved  him!" 


THE     WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  167 

She  flung  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  whispered  the 
last  words  in  my  ear  with  a  passionate  deh'ght  in  uttering 
them  which  it  almost  broke  my  heart  to  hear.  All  the 
long  restraint  she  had  imposed  on  herself  gave  way  in  that 
first,  last  outburst  of  tenderness.  She  broke  from  me  w.ith 
hysterical  vehemence,  and  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  sobs  and  tears  that  shook  her  from  head  to 
foot. 

1  tried  vainly  to  soothe  her  and  reason  with  her;  she  was 
past  being  soothed,  and  past  being  reasoned  with.  It  was 
the  sad,  sudden  end  for  us  two,  of  this  memorable  day. 
When  the  fit  had  worn  itself  out.  she  was  too  exhausted  to 
speak.  She  slumbered  toward  the  afternoon;  and  1  put 
away  the  book  of  drawings,  so  that  she  might  not  see  it 
when  she  woke.  My  face  was  calm,  whatever  my  heart 
might  be,  when  she  opened  her  eyes  again  and  looked  at 
me.  We  said  no  more  to  each  other  about  the  distressing 
interview  of  the  morning.  Sir  Percifal's  name  was  not 
mentioned.  Walter  Hartright  was  not  alluded  to  again  by 
either  of  us  for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

lOfli. — Finding  that  she  was  composed  and  like  herself, 
this  morning,  1  returned  to  the  painful  subject  of  yester- 
day, for  the  sole  purpose  of  imploring  her  to  let  me  speak 
to  Sir  Percival  and  Mr.  Fairlie,  more  plainly  and  strongly 
than  she  could  speak  to  either  of  them  herself,  about  this 
lamentable  marriage.  She  interposed,  gently  but  firmly, 
in  the  middle  of  my  remonstrances. 

"I  left  yesterday  to  decide,'^  she  said;  "  and  yesterday 
has  decided.     It  is  too  late  to  go  back." 

Sir  Percival  spoke  to  me  this  afternoon,  about  what  had 
passed  in  Laura's  room.  He  assured  me  that  the  un- 
paralleled trust  she  had  placed  in  him  had  awakened  such 
an  answering  conviction  of  her  innocence  and  integrity  in 
bis  mind,  that  he  was  guiltless  of  having  felt  even  a  mo- 
ment's unworthy  jealousy,  either  at  the  time  when  he  was 
in  her  presence,  or  afterward  when  he  had  withdrawn  from 
it.  Deeply  as  he  lamented  the  unfortunate  attachment 
which  had  hindered  the  progress  he  might  otherwise  have 
made  in  her  esteem  and  regard,  he  firmly  believed  that  it 
had  remained  unacknowledged  in  the  past,  and  that  it 
would  remain,  under  all  clKiiiges  of  circumstance  which  it 
was  possible  to  contemplate,  unacknowledged  in  the  fut- 


168  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

ure.  This  was  his  absolute  convietiou;  and  the  strongest 
proof  he  could  give  of  it  was  the  assurance,  which  he  uow 
offered,  that  he  felt  no  curiosity  to  know  whether  the  at- 
tachment was  of  recent  date  or  not,  or  who  had  been  the 
object  of  it.  His  implicit  confidence  in  Miss  Fairlie  made 
him  satisfied  with  what  she  had  thought  fit  to  say  to  him, 
and  he  was  honestly  innocent  of  the  slightest  feeling  of 
anxiety  to  hear  more. 

He  waited,  after  saying  those  words,  and  looked  at  me. 
1  was  so  conscious  of  my  unreasonable  prejudice  against 
him — so  conscious  of  an  unworthy  suspicion  that  he  might 
be  speculating  on  my  imjiulsively  answering  the  very  ques- 
tions which  he  had  just  described  himself  as  resolved  not 
to  ask — iliat  1  evaded  all  reference  to  this  part  of  the  sub- 
ject with  something  like  a  feeling  of  confusion  on  my  own 
part.  At  the  same  time,  1  was  resolved  not  to  lose  even 
the  smallest  opportunity  of  trying  to  plead  Laura's  cause; 
and  I  told  him  boldly  that  I  regretted  his  generosity  had 
not  carried  him  one  step  further,  and  induced  him  to  with- 
draw from  the  engagement  altogether. 

Here,  again,  he  disarmed  me  by  not  attempting  to  de- 
fend himself.  He  would  merely  beg  me  to  remember  the 
difference  there  was  between  his  allowing  Miss  Fairlie  to 
give  him  up,  which  was  a  matter  of  submission  only,  and 
his  forcing  himself  to  give  up  Miss  Fairlie,  which  was,  in 
other  words,  asking  him  to  be  the  suicide  of  his  own  hopes. 
Her  conduct  of  the  day  before  had  so  strengthened  the  un- 
changeable love  and  admiration  of  two  long  years,  that  all 
active  contention  against  those  feelings,  on  his  part,  was 
henceforth  entirely  out  of  his  power.  I  must  think  him 
weak,  selfish,  unfeeling  toward  the  very  woman  whom  he 
idolized,  and  he  must  bow  to  my  opinion  as  resignedly  as 
he  could;  only  putting  it  to  me,  at  the  same  time,  whether 
her  future  as  a  single  woman,  pining  under  an  unhappily 
placed  attachment  which  she  could  never  acknowledge, 
could  be  said  to  promise  her  a  much  brighter  prospect  than 
her  future  as  the  wife  of  a  man  who  worshiped  the  very 
ground  she  walked  on?  In  the  last  case  there  was  hope 
from  time,  however  slight  it  might  be — in  the  first  case, 
on  her  own  showing,  there  was  no  hope  at  all. 

1  answered  him — more  because  my  tongue  is  a  woman's, 
and  must  answer,  than  because  I  had  anything  conviru^ing 
to  say.     It  was  only  too  plain  that  the  course  Laura  had 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  169 

adopted  the  day  before,  had  offered  him  the  advantage  if 
ho  chose  to  take  it — and  that  he  had  chosen  to  take  it.  I 
felt  this  at  the  time,  and  I  feel  it  just  as  strongly  now, 
while  I  write  these  lines,  in  my  own  room.  The  one  hope 
left  is  that  his  motives  really  spring,  as  he  says  they  do, 
from  the  irresistible  strength  of  his  attachment  to  Laura. 

Before  1  close  my  diary  for  to-night,  1  must  record  that 
I  wrote  to-day,  in  poor  Hartriglit's  interests,  to  two  of  my 
mother's  old  friends  in  London— both  men  of  influence 
and  position.  If  they  can  do  anything  for  him,  I  am  quite 
sure  they  will.  Except  Laura,  1  never  was  more  anxious 
about  any  one  than  I  am  now  about  Walter.  All  that  has 
happened  since  he  left  us  has  only  increased  my  strong  re- 
gard and  sympathy  for  him.  I  hope  1  am  donig  right  in 
trying  to  help  him  to  employment  abroad— I  hope,  most 
earnestly  and  anxiously,  that  it  will  end  well. 

11^/i.— Sir  Percival  had  an  interview  with  Mr.  Fairlie; 
and  1  was  sent  for  to  join  them. 

I  found  Mr.  Fairlie  greatly  relieved  at  the  prospect  of 
the  "  family  worry  "  (as  he  was  pleased  to  describe  his 
niece's  marriage)  being  settled  at  last.  So  far  I  did  not 
feel  called  on  to  say  anything  to  him  about  my  own  opin- 
ion; but  when  he  proceeded,  in  his  most  aggravatingly  lan- 
guid manner,  to  suggest  that  the  time  for  the  marriage 
had  better  be  settled  next,  in  accordance  with  Sir  Per- 
cival's  wishes,  I  enjoyed  the  satisfaction  of  assailing  Mr. 
Fairlie's  nerves  with  as  strong  a  protest  against  hurrying 
Laura's  decision  as  I  could  put  into  words.  Sir  Percival 
immediately  assured  me  that  he  felt  the  force  of  my  objec- 
tion, and  begged  me  to  believe  that  the  proposal  had  not 
been  made  in  consequence  of  any  interference  on  his  part. 
Mr.  Fairlie  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  closed  his  eyes,  said 
we  both  of  us  did  honor  to  human  nature,  and  then  re- 
peated his  suggestion,  as  coolly  as  if  neither  Sir  Percival 
nor  I  had  said  a  word  in  opposition  to  it.  It  ended  in  my 
flatly  declining  to  mention  the  subject  to  Laura,  unless  she 
first  approached  it  of  her  own  accord.  I  left  the  room  at 
once  after  making  that  declarafion.  Sir  Percival  looked 
seriously  embarrassed  and  distressed.  Mr.  Fairlie  stretched 
out  his  lazy  legs  on  his  velvet  footstool,  and  said,  "  Dear 
Marian!  how  I  envy  you  your  robust  nervous  system! 
Don't  bang  the  door!" 


170  TH^    WOMAN   m    V'HITE. 

On  going  to  Laura's  room,  I  found  that  she  had  asked 
for  me,  and  that  Mrs.  Vesey  had  informed  her  that  I  was 
with  Mr.  Fairlie.  She  inquired  at  once  what  I  had  been 
wanted  for;  and  I  told  her  all  that  had  passed,  without  at- 
tempting to  conceal  the  vexation  and  annoyance  that  I 
really  felt.  Her  answer  surprised  and  distressed  me  inex- 
pressibly; it  was  the  v^'-y  last  reply  that  1  should  have  ex- 
pected her  to  make. 

"  My  uncle  is  right,"  she  said.  "  I  have  caused  trouble 
and  anxiety  enough  to  you,  and  to  all  about  me.  Let  me 
cause  no  more,  Marian — let  Sir  Percival  decide." 

I  remonstrated  warmly;  but  nothing  that  1  could  say 
moved  her. 

"  1  am  held  to  my  engagement,"  she  replied;  "  I  hav' 
broken  with  my  old  life.  The  evil  day  will  not  come  th" 
less  surely  because  I  put  it  otf.  No,  Marian!  once  again 
my  uncle  is  right.  1  have  caused  trouble  enough  and  anx 
iety  enough;  and  1  will  cause  no  more." 

She  used  to  be  pliability  itself;  but  she  was  now  inflexi- 
bly passive  in  her  resignation — 1  might  almost  say  in  hei 
despair.  Dearly  as  I  love  her,  I  should  have  been  less 
pained  if  she  had  been  violently  agitated;  it  was  so  shock- 
ingly unlike  her  natural  character  to  see  her  as  cold  ayd 
insensible  as  I  saw  her  now. 

12fh. — Sir  Percival  put  some  questions  to  me  at  break- 
fast about  Laura,  which  left  me  no  choice  but  to  tell  him 
what  she  had  said. 

While  we  were  talking,  she  herself  came  down  and 
joined  us.  She  was  just  as  unnaturally  composed  in  Sir 
Percival's  presence  as  she  had  been  in  mine.  When  break- 
fast was  over,  he  had  an  opportunity  of  saying  a  few  words 
to  her  privately,  in  a  recess  of  one  of  the  windows.  They 
were  not  more  than  two  or  three  minutes  together;  and, 
on  their  separating,  she  left  the  room  with  Mrs.  Vesey, 
while  Sir  Percival  came  to  me.  He  said  he  had  entreated 
her  to  favor  him  by  maintaining  her  privilege  of  fixing  the 
time  for  the  marriage  at  her  own  will  and  pleasure.  In 
reply,  she  had  merely  expressed  her  acknowledgments,  and 
had  desired  him  to  mention  what  his  wishes  were  to  Miss 
Halcombe. 

I  have  no  patience  to  write  more.  In  this  instance,  as 
in  every  other.  Sir  Percivai  has  'larried  his  poirt,  v^'iLh  me 


THE    WOxMAN    IN     WHITE.  171 

utmost  possible  credit  to  himself,  in  spite  of  everything 
tiiat  I  can  say  or  do.  His  wishes  are  now  what  the/  were, 
of  course,  when  he  first  came  here;  and  Laura  having  re- 
signed herself  to  the  one  inevitable  sacrifice  of  the  mar- 
riage, remains  as  coldly  hopeless  and  enduring  as  ever.  In 
parting  with  the  little  occupations  and  relics  that  reminded 
her  of  Hartright,  she  seems  to  have  parted  with  all  her 
tenderness  and  all  her  impressibility.  It  is  only  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  while  1  write  these  lines,  and  Sir 
Percival  has  left  us  already,  in  the  happy  hurry  of  a  bride- 
groom, to  prepare  for  the  bride's  reception  at  his  house  in 
Hampshire.  [Jnless  some  extraordinary  event  happens  to 
prevent  it,  they  will  be  married  exactly  at  the  time  when 
he  wished  to  be  married— before  the  end  of  the  year.  My 
very  fingers  burn  as  I  write  it! 

Idth.—K  sleepless  night,  through  uneasiness  about 
Laura.  Toward  the  morning  I  came  to  a  resolution  to  try 
what  change  of  scene  would  do  to  rouse  her.  She  can  not 
surely  remain  in  her  present  torpor  of  insensibility,  if  1 
take  her  away  from  Limmeridge  and  surround  her  with  the 
pleasant  faces  of  old  friends?  After  some  consideration,  I 
decided  on  writing  to  the  Arnolds,  in  Yorkshire.  They 
are  simple,  kind-hearted,  hospitable  people,  and  she  has 
known  them  from  her  childhood.  When  I  had  put  the 
letter  in  the  post-bag,  I  told  her  what  I  had  done.  It 
would  have  been  a  relief  to  me  if  she  had  shown  the  spirit 
to  resist  and  object.  But  no— she  only  said,  "  I  will  go 
anywhere  with  ymi,  Marian.  I  dare  say  you  are  right— I 
dare  say  the  change  will  do  me  good." 

lUh.~l  wrote  to  Mr.  Gilmore,  informing  him  that  there 
5vas  really  a  prospect  of  this  miserable  marriage  taking 
place,  and  also  mentioning  my  idea  of  trying  what  change 
of  scene  would  do  for  Laura.  I  had  no  heart  to  go  into 
particulars.  Time  enough  for  them  when  we  get  nearer 
to  the  end  of  the  year. 

15/^.— Three  letters  for  me.  The  first,  from  the  Ar- 
nolds, ^full  of  delight  at  the  prospect  of  seeinsr  Laura  and 
me.  The  second,  from  one  of  the  gentlemen  to  whom  1 
wrote  on  Walter  Hartright's  behalf,  informing  me  that  he 
has  been  fortunate  enough  to  find  an  opportunity  of  com- 


172  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

plying  with  my  request.  Tiie  third,  from  Walter  himself; 
thanking  me,  poor  fellow,  in  the  warmest  terms,  for  giv- 
ing him  an  opportunity  of  leaving  his  home,  his  couniry, 
and  his  friends.  A  private  expedition  to  make  excavations 
among  the  ruined  cities  of  Central  America  is,  it  seems, 
about  to  sail  from  Liverpool.  The  draughtsman  who  had 
been  already  appointed  to  accompany  it  has  lost  heart,  and 
withdrawn  at  the  eleventh  hour;  and  Walter  is  to  fill  his 
place.  He  is  to  be  engaged  for  six  months  certain,  from 
the  time  of  the  landing  in  Honduras,  and  for  a  year  after- 
ward, if  the  excavations  are  successful,  and  if  the  funds 
hold  out.  His  letter  ends  with  a  promise  to  write  me  a 
farewell  line  when  they  are  all  on  board  ship,  and  when 
the  pilot  leaves  them.  I  can  only  hope  and  pray  earnestly 
that  he  and  1  are  both  acting  in  this  matter  for  the  best. 
It  seems  such  a  serious  step  for  him  to  take,  that  the  mere 
contemplation  oE  it  startles  me.  And  yet,  in  his  unhappy 
position,  how  can  I  expect  him,  or  wish  him,  to  remain  at 
home? 

16///. — The  carriage  is  at  the  door.    Laura  and  I  set  out 
on  our  visit  to  the  Arnolds  to-day. 


PoLESDF.AN  Lodge,  Yorkshire. 
23d. — A  week  in  these  new  scenes  and  among  these  kind- 
hearted  people  has  done  her  some  good,  though  not  so 
much  as  I  had  hoped.  I  have  resolved  to  prolong  our  stay 
for  another  week  at  least.  It  is  useless  to  go  back  to  Lim- 
meridge,  till  there  is  an  absolute  necessity  for  our  return. 

2Uh. — Sad  news  by  this  morning's  post.  The  expe- 
dition to  Central  America  sailed  on  the  twenty-first.  We 
have  parted  with  a  true  man;  we  have  lost  a  faithful 
friend.     Walter  Hartright  has  left  England. 

2rt/h. — 8ad  news  yesterday;  omnious  news  to-day.  Sir 
Percival  Clyde  has  \vritten  to  Mr.  Fairlie;  and  Mr.  Fairlie 
has  written  to  Laura  and  me,  to  recall  us  to  Limmeridge 
immediately. 

What  can  this  mean?  Has  the  day  for  the  marriag* 
been  fixed  in  our  absence? 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  173 


IL 

LlMMEREDGE  HoUSE. 

Novemher  ^Hth. — My  forebodings  are  realized.  The 
marriage  is  fixed  for  the  twenty-second  of  December. 

The  day  after  we  left  for  Pnlesdean  Lodge,  Sir  Peroival 
wrote,  it  seems,  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  to  say  that  the  necessary 
repairs  and  alterations  in  his  house  in  Hampshire  would 
occupy  a  much  longer  time  in  completion  than  he  had 
originally  anticipated.  The  proper  estimates  wei-e  to  be 
submitted  to  him  as  soon  as  possible;  and  it  would  greatly 
facilitate  his  entering  into  definite  arrangements  with  the 
work-people,  if  he  could  be  informed  of  the  exact  period  at 
which  the  wedding  ceremony  might  be  expected  to  take 
place.  He  could  then  make  all  his  calculations  with  refer- 
ence to  time,  besides  writing  the  necessary  apologies  to 
friends  who  had  been  engaged  to  visit  him  that  winter,  and 
who  could  not,  of  course,  be  received  when  the  house  was 
in  the  hands  of  the  workmen. 

To  this  letter  Mr,  Fairlie  had  repfied  by  requesting  Sir 
Perciyal  himself  to  suggest  a  day  for  the  marriage,  subject 
to  Miss  Fairlie's  approval,  which  her  guardian  willingly 
undertook  to  do  his  best  to  obtain.  Sir  Percival  wrote 
back  by  the  next  post,  and  proposed  (in  accordance  with 
his  own  views  and  wishes  from  the  first)  the  latter  part  of 
December— perhaps  the  twenty-second,  or  twenty-fourth, 
or  any  other  day  that  tlie  lady  and  her  guardian  might  pre- 
fer. The  lady  not  being  at  hand  to  speak  for  herself,  her 
guardian  had  decided,  in  her  absence,  on  the  earliest  day 
mentioned  —  the  twenty-second  of  December  —  and  had 
written  to  recall  us  to  Limmeridge  in  consequence. 

After  explaining  these  particulars  to  me  at  a  private  in- 
terview yesterday,  Mr.  Fairlie  suggested,  in  his  most  amia- 
ble manner,  that  1  should  open  the  necessary  negotiations 
to-day.  Feeling  that  resistance  was  useless,  unless  I  could 
first  obtain  Laura's  authority  to  make  it,  1  consented  to 
speak  to  her,  but  declared,  at  the  same  time,  that  I  would 
on  no  consideration  undertake  to  gain  her  consent  to  Sir 
Percival's  wishes.  Mr.  Fairlie  complimented  me  on  my 
"excellent  conscience,"  much  as  he  would  have  conipji- 
meuted  me,  if  we  had  been  out  walking,  on  my  "  excellent 


174  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

constitution,"  and  seemed  perfectly  satisfied,  so  far,  with 
having  simply  shifted  one  more  family  responsibility  from 
his  own  shoulders  to  mine. 

This  morning  I  spoke  to  Laura,  as  1  had  promised.  The 
composure — I  may  almost  say,  the  insensibility — which  she 
has  so  strangely  and  so  resolutely  maintained  ever  since 
Sir  Percival  left  us,  was  not  proof  against  the  shock  of  the 
news  1  had  to  tell  her.  She  turned  pale,  and  trembled 
violently. 

"  Not  so  soon!"  she  pleaded.  "Oh,  Marian,  not  so 
soon!" 

The  slightest  hint  she  could  give  was  enough  for  me.  1 
rose  to  leave  the  room,  and  fight  her  battle  for  her  at  once 
with  Mr.  Fairlie. 

Just  as  my  hand  was  on  the  door,  she  caught  fast  hold 
of  my  dress  and  stopped  me. 

"  Let  me  go!"  1  said.  "  My  tongue  burns  to  tell  your 
uncle  that  he  and  Sir  Percival  are  not  to  have  it  all  their 
own  way." 

She  sighed  bitterly,  and  still  held  my  dress. 

"No!"  she  said,  faintly.  "Too  late,  Marian,  too 
late!" 

"  Not  a  minute  too  late,"  I  retorted.  "  The  question 
of  time  is  our  question — and  trust  me,  Laura,  to  take  a 
woman's  full  advantage  of  it." 

I  unclasped  her  hand  from  my  gown  while  J  spoke;  but 
she  slipped  both  her  arms  round  my  waist  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, and  held  me  more  eft'ectually  than  ever. 

"  It  will  only  involve  us  in  more  trouble  and  more  con- 
fuaion,"  she  said.  "  It  will  set  you  and  my  uncle  at 
variance,  and  bring  Sir  Percival  here  again  with  fresh 
causes  of  complaint — " 

"  So  much  the  better!"  I  cried  out,  passionately. 
"  Who  cares  for  his  causes  of  complaint?  Are  you  to 
break  your  heart  to  set  his  mind  at  ease?  No  man  under 
heaven  deserves  these  sacrifices  from  us  women.  Men! 
They  are  the  enemies  of  our  innocence  and  our  peace — they 
drag  us  away  from  our  parents'  love  and  our  sisters'  friend- 
ship— they  take  us,  body  and  sou),  to  themselves,  and 
fasten  our  helpless  lives  to  theirs  as  they  chain  up  a  dog  to 
his  kennel.  And  what  does  the  best  of  them  give  us  in 
return?    Let  me  go,  Laura — I'm  mad  when  1  think  of  it!'" 

The  tears — miserable,  weak,  women's  tears  of  vexation 


THE     WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  175 

and  rage — started  to  my  eyes.  She  smiled  sadly,  and  put 
lier  liaiidkerchiL'f  over  my  face,  to  hide  for  me  the  betrayal 
of  my  own  weakness — the  weakness  of  all  others  which  she 
knew  that  I  most  despised. 

"Oh,  Marian!"  she  said.  "  You  crying!  Think  what 
you  would  say  to  me  if  the  places  were  chanj^ed,  and  if 
those  tears  were  mine.  All  your  love  and  courage  and  de- 
votion will  not  alter  what  iiiui<i  happen,  sooner  or  later. 
Let  my  uncle  have  his  way.  Let  us  have  no  more  troubles 
and  heart-burnings  that  any  sacrifice  of  mine  can  prevent. 
Say  you  will  live  with  me,  Marian,  when  I  am  married— 
and  say  no  more.'" 

But  I  did  say  more.  I  forced  back  the  contemptible 
tears  that  were  no  relief  to  nie,  and  that  only  distressed 
her;  and  reasoned  and  pleaded  as  calmly- as  I  could.  It 
was  of  no  avail.  She  made  me  twice  rep(  at  the  promise  to 
live  with  her  when  she  was  married,  and  then  suddenly 
asked  a  question  which  turned  my  sorrow  and  my  sym- 
pathy for  her  into  a  new  direction. 

"  While  we  were  at  Folesdean/'  she  said,  "  you  had  a 
letter,  Marian — " 

Her  altered  tone;  the  abrupt  manner  in  which  she  looked 
away  from  me,  and  hid  her  face  on  my  shoulder;  the  hesi- 
tation which  silenced  her  before  she  had  completed  her 
question,  all  told  me,  but  too  plainly,  to  whom  the  half- 
expressed  inquiry  pointed. 

"  I  thought,  Laura,  that  you  and  I  were  never  to  refer 
to  him  again,"  I  said,  gently. 

"  You  had  a  letter  from  him?"  she  persisted. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  if  you  must  know  it." 

*'  Do  you  mean  to  write  to  him  again?" 

1  hesitated.  I  had  been  afraid  to  tell  her  of  his  absence 
from  England,  or  of  the  manner  in  which  my  exertions  to 
serve  his  new  hopes  and  projects  had  connected  me  with 
his  departure.  What  answer  could  1  make?  He  was  gone 
where  no  letters  could  reach  him  for  months,  perhaps  for 
years,  to  come. 

"  Suppose  1  do  mean  to  write  to  him  again,"  I  said,  at 
last.     "■  What  then,  Laura?" 

Her  cheek  grew  burning  hot  against  my  neck,  and  her 
arms  trembled  and  tightened  round  me. 

"  Don't  tell  him  about  the  twenty-second^**  she  whi8> 


176  THR    WOMAN    IN    ^VHITE. 

pered.  "  Promise,  Marian — pray  pi'omise  you  will  not 
even  mention  my  name  to  him  when  you  write  next." 

I  gave  the  promise.  No  words  can  say  how  sorrowfully 
1  gave  it.  She  instantly  took  her  arm  from  my  waist, 
walked  away  to  the  window,  and  stood  looking  out,  with 
her  back  to  me.  After  a  moment  she  spoke  once  more, 
but  without  turning  round,  without  allowing  me  to  catch 
the  smallest  glimpse  of  her  face. 

"  Are  you  going  to  my  uncle's  room?'*  she  asked. 
"  Will  you  say  that  I  consent  to  whatever  arrangement  he 
may  think  best?  Never  mind  leaving  me,  Marian.  I 
shall  be  better  alone  for  a  littl*^  while." 

I  went  out.  If,  as  soon  as  1  got  into  the  passage,  1  could 
have  transported  Mr.  Fairlie  and  Sir  Percival  Glyde  to  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  by  lifting  one  of  my  fingers, 
that  finger  would  have  been  raised  without  an  instant's 
hesitation.  For  once  my  unhappy  temper  now  stood  my 
friend.  I  should  have  broken  down  altogether  and  burst 
into  a  violent  fit  of  crying,  if  my  tears  had  not  been  all 
burned  up  in  the  heat  of  my  anger.  As  it  was,  I  dashed 
into  Mr.  Fairlie's  room-=-calIed  to  him  as  harshly  as  possi- 
ble, "  Laura  consents  to  the  twenty-second  " — and  dashed 
out  again  without  waiting  for  a  word  of  answer.  I  banged, 
thf)  door  after  me,  and  1  hope  I  shattered  Mr.  Fairlie's 
nervous  system  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

28^//. — This  morning  1  read  poor  Hartright's  farewell 
letter  over  again;  a  doubt  ha\ing  crossed  my  mind  since 
yesterday,  whether  1  am  acting  wisely  in  concealing  the 
fact  of  his  departure  from  Laura. 

On  reflection,  I  still  think  I  am  right.  The  allusions  in 
his  letter  to  the  preparations  made  for  the  expedition  to 
Central  America,  all  show  that  the  leaders  of  it  know  it  to 
be  dangerous.  If  the  discovery  of  this  makes  me  uneasy, 
what  would  it  make  her?  It  is  bad  enough  to  feel  that  his 
departure  has  deprived  us  of  the  friend  of  all  others  to 
whose  devotion  we  could  trust  in  the  hour  of  need,  if  ever 
that  hour  comes  and  finds  us  helpless.  But  it  is  far  worse 
to  know  that  he  has  gone  from  us  to  face  the  perils  of  a 
bad  climate,  a  wild  country,  and  a  disturbed  population. 
Surely  it  would  be  a  cruel  candor  to  tell  Laura  this,  with- 
out a  pressing  atid  a  positive  necessity  for  it? 

1  almost  doubt  whether  I  ought  not  to  go  a  step  further. 


THE    WOMATSr    IIT    WHITE.  177 

and  burn  the  letter  at  once,  for  fear  of  its  one  day  falling 
into  wrong  hands.  It  not  only  refers  to  Laura  in  terms 
which  ought  to  remain  a  secret  forever  between  the  writer 
and  me;  but  it  reiterates  his  suspicion — so  obstinate,  so 
unaccountable,  and  so  alarming— that  he  has  been  secretly 
watched  since  he  left  Limmeridge.  He  declares  that  he 
saw  the  faces  of  the  two  strange  men,  who  followed  him 
about  the  streets  of  London,  watching  him  among  the 
crowd  which  gathered  at  Liverpool  to  see  the  expedition 
embark:  and  he  positively  asserts  that  he  heard  the  name 
of  Anne  Catherick  pronounced  behind  him,  as  he  got  into 
the  boat.  His  own  words  are,  "  These  events  have  a  mean- 
ing, these  events  must  lead  to  a  result.  The  mystery  of 
Anne  Catherick  is  nut  cleared  up  yet.  She  may  never 
cross  my  path  again;  but  if  ever  she  crosses  yours,  make 
better  use  of  the  opportunity.  Miss  Halcombe,  than  I  made 
of  it.  1  speak  on  strong  conviction;  1  entreat  you  to  re- 
member what  1  say."  These  are  his  own  expressions. 
There  is  no  dinger  of  my  forgetting  them — my  memory  is 
only  too  ready  to  dwell  on  any  words  of  Hartright's  that 
refer  to  Anne  Catherick.  But  there  is  danger  in  my  keep- 
ing the  letter.  The  merest  accident  might  place  it  at  the 
mercy  of  strangers.  I  may  fall  ill;  1  may  die.  Better  to 
burn  it  at  once,  and  have  one  anxiety  the  less. 

It  is  burned!  The  ashes  of  his  farewell  letter — the  last 
he  may  ever  write  to  me — lie  in  a  few  black  fragments  on 
the  hearth.  Is  this  the  sad  end  to  all  that  sad  story? 
Oh,  not  the  end — surely,  surely  not  the  end  already! 

29//i. — The  preparations  for  the  marriage  have  begun. 
The  dress- niraker  has  come  to  receive  her  orders.  Laura 
is  perfectly  impassive,  perfectly  careless  about  the  question 
of  all  others  in  which  a  woman's  personal  interests  are  most 
closely  bound  up.  She  has  left  it  all  to  the  dress-maker 
and  to  me.  If  poor  Hartright  had  been  the  baronet,  and 
the  husband  of  her  father's  choice,  how  differently  she 
would  have  behaved!  How  anxious  and  caoricious  she 
would  have  been,  and  v/hat  a  hard  task  the  best  of  dress- 
makers would  have  found  it  to  please  her! 

dOth. — We  hear  every  day  from  Sir  Percival.  The  last 
news  is,  that  the  alterations  in  his  house  will  occupy  fiom 
four  to  six  months,  before  they  can  be  properly  coni{)l"ti'il, 
jlf  painters,  paper-hangers,  and  upholsterers  cpuid  make 


178  THE    ^i05IAN    IN    WHITE. 

happiness  as  well  as  splendor,  T  should  be  interested  about 
their  proceedings  in  Laura's  future  home.  As  it  is,  the 
only  part  of  Sir  Percival's  last  letter  which  does  not  leave 
me  as  it  found  me,  perfectly  indifferent  to  all  his  plans  and 
projects,  is  the  part  which  refers  to  the  wedding-tour.  He 
proposes,  as  Laura  is  delicate,  and  as  the  winttu-  tlireatens 
to  be  unusually  severe,  to  take  her  to  Rome,  and  to  remain 
in  Italy  until  the  early  pa:-t  of  next  summer.  If  this  plan 
should  not  be  approved,  he  is  equally  ready,  although  he 
has  no  establishment  of  his  own  in  town,  to  spend  tlie  sea- 
son in  London,  in  the  most  suitable  furnished  house  that 
can  be  obtained  for  the  purpose. 

Putting  myself  and  my  own  feelings  entirely  out  of  the 
question  (which  it  is  my  duty  to  do,  and  which  I  have 
done),  1,  for  one,  have  no  doubt  of  the  propriety  of  adopt- 
ing the  first  of  these  proposals.  In  either  case,  jj  separa- 
tion between  Laura  and  me  is  inevitable.  It  will  be  a 
longer  separation,  in  the  event  of  their  going  abroad,  than 
it  would  be  in  the  event  of  their  reitnaining  in  London  —but 
wo  must  set  against  this  disadvantage  the  benefit  to  Laura 
on  the  other  side,  of  passing  the  winter  in  a  mild  climate; 
and,  more  than  that,  the  immense  assistance  in  raising  her 
spirits,  and  reconciling  her  to  her  new  existence,  which  the 
mere  wonder  and  excitement  of  traveling  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  in  the  most  interesting  country  in  the  world 
must  surely  afford.  She  is  not  of  a  disposition  to  find  re- 
sources in  the  conventional  gayeties  and  excitements  of 
London.  They  would  only  make  the  first  oppression  of 
this  lamentable  marriage  fall  the  heavier  on  her.  I  dread 
the  begnming  of  her  new  life  more  than  words  can  tell; 
but  I  see  some  hope  for  her  if  she  travels — none  if  she  re- 
mains at  home. 

It  is  strange  to  look  back  at  this  latest  entry  in  my  jour- 
nal, and  to  find  that  I  am  writing  of  the  marriage  and  the 
parting  with  Laura,  as  people  write  of  a  settled  thing.  It 
seems  so  cold  and  so  unfeeling  to  be  looking  at  the  future 
already  in  this  cruelly  composed  way.  But  what  other  way 
is  possible,  now  that  the  time  is  drawing  so  near?  Before 
another  month  is  over  our  heads,  she  will  be  his  Laura  in* 
stead  of  mine!  His  Laura!  I  am  as  little  able  to  realize 
liui  idea  which  those  two  words  convey — my  mind  feels 
uiuiost  as  dulled  and  stuiun*3  by  it— as  if  writing  of  her 
marriage  were  like  wrrtiji^  of  her  fleath. 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  1?9 

Decemler  1st.— A  sad,  sad  day;  a  day  Ibat  1  have  no 
heart  to  describe  at  any  length.  After  weakly  putting  it 
otf,  last  night,  I  was  obliged  to  speak  to  her  this  morning 
of  8ir  Percival's  proposal  about  the  wedding-tour. 

In  the  full  conviction  that  I  should  be  with  her  wherever 
she  went,  the  poor  child — for  a  child  she  is  still  in  many 
«ihings— was  almost  happy  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  fhe 
wonders  of  Florence  and  Rome  and  Naples.  It  nearly 
broke  my  heart  to  dispel  her  delusion,  and  to  bring  her 
face  to  face  with  the  hard  truth.  1  was  obliged  to  tell  her 
that  no  man  tolerates  a  rival — not  even  a  woman  rival — in 
his  wife's  affections,  when  he  first  marries,  whatever  he 
may  do  afterward.  1  was  obliged  to  warn  her,  that  my 
3hance  of  living  with  her  permanently  under  her  own  roof 
depended  entirely  on  my  not  arousing  Sir  Percival's  jeal- 
ousy and  distrust  by  standing  between  them  at  the  begin- 
ning of  their  marriage,  in  the  position  of  the  chosen  de- 
pository of  his  wife's  closest  secrets.  Drop  by  drop,  I 
poured  the  profaning  bitterness  of  this  world's  wisdom  into 
that  pure  heart  and  that  innocent  mind,  while  every  higher 
and  better  feeling  within  me  recoiled  from  my  miserable 
task.  It  is  over  now.  She  has  learned  her  hard,  her  in- 
evitable lesson.  The  simple  illusions  of  her  girlhood  are 
gone;  and  my  hand  has  stripped  them  off.  Better  mine 
than  his — that  is  all  my  consolation — better  mine  than 
his. 

So  the  first  proposal  is  the  proposal  accepted.  They  are 
to  go  to  Italy;  and  I  am  to  arrange,  with  Sir  Percival's 
permission,  for  meeting  them  and  staying  with  them,  when 
they  return  to  England.  In  other  words,  I  am  to  ask  a 
personal  favor,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  and  to  ask  it 
of  the  man  of  all  others  to  whom  I  least  desire  to  owe  a 
serious  obligation  of  any  kind.  Well!  I  think  I  could  do 
even  more  than  that,  for  Laura's  sake. 

2cL — On  looking  back,  I  find  myself  always  referring  to 
Sir  Percival  in  disparaging  terms.  In  the  turn  affairs  have 
now  taken,  I  must  and  will  root  out  my  prejudice  against 
him.  I  can  not  think  how  it  first  got  into  my  mind.  It 
certainly  never  existed  in  former  times. 

Is  it  Laura's  reluctance  to  become  his  wife  that  has  set 
me  against  him?  Have  Hartright's  perfectly  intelligible 
prejudices  infected  me  without  my  suspecting  their  iuilu- 


180  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

ence?  Does  that  letter  of  Anne  Catherick's  still  leave  a 
lurking  distrust  in  my  mine],  in  spite  of  Sir  Percival's  ex- 
planation, and  of  the  proof  in  my  possession  of  the  truth 
of  it?  I  can  not  account  for  the  state  of  my  own  feelings; 
the  one  thing  I  am  certain  of  is  that  it  is  my  duty — doubly 
my  duty,  now — not  to  wrong  Sir  Percival  by  unjustly  dis- 
trusting him.  If  it  has  got  to  be  a  habit  with  me  always 
to  write  of  him  in  the  same  unfavorable  manner,  I  must 
and  will  break  myself  of  this  unworthy  tendency,  even 
though  the  effort  should  force  me  to  close  the  pages  of  my 
journal  till  the  marriage  is  over!  I  am  seriously  dissatis- 
fied with  myself— 1  will  write  no  more  to-day. 

December  \Qtli. — A  whole  fortnight  has  passed;  and  I 
have  not  once  opened  these  pages.  1  have  been  long 
enough  away  from  my  journal,  to  come  back  to  it  with  a 
healthier  and  better  mind,  I  hope,  so  far  as  Sir  Percival  is 
concerned. 

There  is  not  much  to  record  of  the  past  two  weeks.  The 
dresses  are  almost  all  finished;  and  the  new  traveling- 
trunks  have  been  sent  here  from  London.  Poor  dear 
Laura  hardly  leaves  me  for  a  moment  all  day;  and  last 
night,  when  neither  of  us  could  sleep,  she  came  and  crept 
into  my  bed  to  talk  to  me  there.  "  I  shall  lose  you  so 
soon,  Marian,"  she  said;  "  1  must  make  the  most  of  you 
while  I  can." 

They  are  to  be  married  at  Linimeridge  Church;  and, 
thank  Heaven,  not  one  of  the  neighbors  is  to  be  invited  to 
the  ceremony.  The  only  visitor  will  be  our  friend,  Mr. 
Arnold,  who  is  to  come  from  Polesdean  to  give  Laura 
away;  her  uncle  being  far  too  delicate  to  trust  himself  out- 
side the  door  in  such  inclement  weather  as  we  now  have. 
If  I  were  not  determined,  from  this  day  forth,  to  see  noth- 
ing but  the  bright  side  of  our  prospects,  the  melancholy 
absence  of  any  male  relative  of  Laura's,  at  the  most  im- 
portant moment  of  her  life,  would  make  me  very  gloomy 
and  very  distrustful  of  the  future.  But  I  have  done  with 
gloom  and  distrust — that  is  to  say,  1  have  done  with  writing 
about  either  the  one  or  the  other  in  this  journal. 

Sir  Percival  is  to  arrive  to-morrow.  He  offered,  in  case 
we  wished  to  treat  him  on  terms  of  rigid  etiquette,  to  write 
and  ask  our  clergyman  to  grant  him  the  hospitality  of  the 
rectory  during  the  short  period  of  his  sojourn  at  Limme- 


THR    WOMAN"    IN    WHTTE.  181 

ridge  before  the  marriage.  Under  the  circumstances, 
neither  Mr.  Fairlie  nor  1  thought  it  at  all  necessary  for 
us  to  trouble  ourselves  about  attending  to  trifling  forms 
and  ceremonies.  In  our  wild  moorland  country,  and  in 
this  great  lonely  house,  we  may  well  claim  to  be  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  trivial  conventionalities  which  hamper 
people  in  other  places.  1  wrote  to  Sir  Percival  to  thank 
him  for  hia  polite  offer,  and  to  beg  that  he  would  occupy 
his  old  rooms,  just  as  usual,  at  Limmeridge  House. 

nth. — He  arrived  to-day,  looking,  as  1  thought,  a  little 
worn  and  anxious,  but  still  talking  and  laughing  like  a 
man  in  the  best  possible  spirits.  He  brought  with  him 
some  really  beautiful  presents  in  jewelry,  which  Laura  re- 
ceived with  her  best  grace,  and,  outwardly  at  least,  with 
perfect  self-possession.  The  only  sign  I  can  detect  of  the 
struggle  it  must  cost  her  to  preserve  appearances  at  this 
trying  time,  expresses  itself  in  a  sudden  unwillingness  on 
her  part  ever  to  be  left  alone.  Instead  of  retreating  to  her 
own  room,  as  usual,  she  seems  to  dread  going  there.  When 
I  went  upstairs  to-day,  after  lunch,  to  put  on  my  bonnet 
for  a  walk,  she  volunteered  to  join  me;  and  again,  before 
dinner,  she  threw  the  door  open  between  our  two  rooms, 
so  that  we  might  talk  to  each  other  while  we  were  dress- 
ing. "Keep  me  always  doing  something,"  she  said; 
"  keep  me  always  in  company  with  somebod}'.  Don't  let 
me  think — that  is  all  1  ask  now,  Marian — don't  let  me 
think," 

This  sad  change  in  her  only  increases  her  attractions  for 
Sir  Percival.  He  interprets  it,  I  can  see,  to  his  own  ad- 
vantage. There  is  a  feverish  flush  in  her  cheeks,  a  fever- 
ish brightness  in  her  eyes,  which  he  welcomes  as  the  return 
of  her  beauty  and  the  recovery  of  her  spirits.  She  talked 
to-day  at  dinner  with  a  gayety  and  carelessness  so  false,  so 
shockingly  out  of  her  character,  that  i  secretly  longed  to 
silence  her  and  take  her  awa3^  Sir  Percival's  delight  and 
surprise  appeared  to  be  beyond  all  expression.  The  anx- 
iety which  1  had  noticed  on  his  face  when  he  arrived,  totally 
disappeared  from  it,  and  he  looked,  even  to  my  eyes,  a 
good  ten  years  younger  than  he  really  is. 

There  can  be  no  doubt — though  some  strange  perversity 
prevents  me  from  seeing  it  nr/sclf — there  can  be  no  doubt 
that*  Laura's  futnire  husband  is  a  very  handsome  man. 


182  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Ri'giilar  features  form  a  personal  advantage  to  begin  with 
— and  lie  has  them.  Bright  brown  eyes,  either  in  man  or 
woman,  are  a  great  attraction — and  he  has  them.  Even 
haldness,  when  it  is  only  baldness  over  the  forehead  (as  in 
his  case),  is  rather  becoming  than  not,  in  a  man,  for  it 
iieightens  the  head  and  adds  to  the  intelligence  of  the  face. 
Grace  and  ease  of  movemeiit;  untiring  animation  of  man- 
ner; ready,  pliant  conversational  powers — all  these  are  un- 
questionable merits,  and  all  these  he  certainly  possesses. 
Surely,  Mr.  Gilmore,  ignorant  as  he  is  of  Laura's  secret, 
was  not  to  blame  for  feeling  surprised  that  she  should  re- 
pent of  her  marriage  engagement?  Any  one  else  in  his 
place  would  have  shared  our  good  old  friend's  opinion.  If 
I  were  asked  at  this  moment  to  say  plainly  what  defects  I 
have  discovered  in  Sir  Percival,  1  could  only  point  out  two. 
One,  his  incessant  restlessness  and  excitability — which  may 
be  caused,  naturally  enough,  by  unusual  energy  of  char- 
acten  The  other,  his  short,  sharp,  ill-tempered  manner 
of  speaking  to  the  servants — which  maybe  only  a  bad  habit 
after  all.  No;  1  can  not  dispute  it,  and  J  will  not  dispute 
it — Sir  Percival  is  a  very  handsome  and  a  very  agreeable 
man.  There!  I  have  written  it  down  at  last,' and  I  am 
glad  it's  over. 

18///. — Feeling  weary  and  depressed  this  morning,  I  left 
Luura  with  Mrs.  Vesey,  and  went  out  alone  for  one  of  my 
brisk  midday  walks,  which  I  have  discontinued  too  much 
of  late.  I  took  the  dry  airy  road  over  the  moor  that  leads 
to  Todd's  Corner.  After  having  been  out  half  an  hour,  1 
was  excessively  surprised  to  see  Sir  Percival  approaching 
me  from  the  direction  of  the  farm.  He  was  walking  rapid- 
ly swinging  his  stick,  his  head  erect  as  usual,  and  his 
shooting- jacket  flying  open  in  the  wind.  When  we  met, 
he  did  not  wait  for  me  to  ask  any  questions — he  told  me  at 
once  that  he  had  been  to  the  farm  to  inquire  if  Mr.  or  Mrs. 
Todd  had  received  any  tidings,  since  his  last  visit  to  Lim- 
meridge,  of  Anne  Calhrrick. 

"  You  found,  of  course,  that  they  had  heard  nothing?** 
1  said. 

"  Nothing  whatever,"  he  replied.  "  I  begin  to  be  seri- 
ously afraid  that  we  have  lost  her.  Do  you  happen  to 
know,"  he  continued,  looking  me  in  the  face  very  att'ent- 


THE    WOMAN-    TN    WHITE.  183 

iVely,  "  if  the  artist — J^lr.  ITartright — is  in  a  position  to 
giv^e  us  any  furtlior  information?" 

"  He  has  neither  heard  of  hei",  nor  seen  her,  since  he 
left  Cumberland/'  I  answered. 

"  Very  sad/'  said  Sir  Percival,  speaking  like  a  man  who 
was  disappointed,  and  yet,  oddly  enough,  looking,  at  the 
same  time,  like  a  man  who  was  relieved.  *'  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  say  what  misfortunes  may  not  have  happened  to  the 
miserable  creature.  1  am  inexpressibly  annoyed  at  the 
failure  of  all  my  efforts  to  restore  her  to  the  care  and  pro- 
tection which  she  so  urgently  needs." 

This  time  he  really  looked  annoyed.  I  said  a  few  sym- 
pathizing words;  and  we  then  talked  of  other  subjects,  on 
our  way  back  to  the  house.  Surely  my  chance  meeting 
with  him  on  the  moor  has  disclosed  another  favorable  trait 
in  his  character?  Surely  it  was  singularly  considerate 
and  unselfish  of  him  to  think  of  Anne  Catherick  on  the 
eve  of  his  marriage,  and  to  go  all  the  way  to  Todd's  Cor- 
ner to  make  inquiries  about  her,  when  he  might  have 
passed  the  time  so  much  more  agreeably  in  Laura's  society? 
Considering  that  he  can  only  have  acted  from  motives  of 
pure  charity,  his  conduct,  under  the  circumstances,  shows 
unusual  good  feeling,  and  deserves  extraordinary  praise — 
Well!  1  give  him  extraordinary  praise — and  there's  an  end 
of  it. 

19/^, — More  discoveries  in  the  inexhaustible  mine  of  Sir 

Percival's  virtues. 

To-day  I  approached  the  subject  of  my  proposed  sojourn 
under  his  wife's  roof,  when  he  brings  her  back  to  England 
I  had  hardly  dropped  my  first  hifit  in  this  direction  before 
he  caught  me  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  said  1  had  made 
the  very  offer  to  him  which  he  had  been,  on  his  side,  most 
anxious  to  make  to  me.  1  was  the  companion  of  all  others 
whom  he  most  sincerely  longed  to  secure  for  his  wife;  and 
he  begged  me  to  believe  that  I  had  conferred  a  lasting  favor 
on  him  by  making  the  proposal  to  live  with  Laura  after 
her  marriage,  exactly  as  I  had  always  lived  with  her  be- 
fore it. 

When  I  had  thanked  him.  in  her  name  and  mine,  for  his 
considerate  kindness  to  both  of  us,  we  passed  next  to  the 
subject  of  his  wedding-tour,  and  began  to  talk  of  the  En- 
glish society  in  Rome  to  which  Laura  was  to  be  iutrcdwriedL 


184  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

He  ran  over  the  names  of  several  friends  whom  he  expected 
to  meet  abroad  this  winter.  They  were  all  English,  aa 
well  as  I  can  remember,  with  one  exception.  The  one  ex- 
ception was  Count  Fosco. 

The  mention  of  the  Count's  name,  aud  the  discovery 
that  he  and  his  wife  are  likely  to  meet  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom on  the  Continent,  puts  Laura's  marriage,  for  the 
first  time,  in  a  distinctly  favorable  light.  It  is  likely  to  be 
the  means  of  healing  a  family  feud.  Hitherto  Mme.  Fosco 
has  chosen  to  forget  her  obligations  as  Laura's  aunt,  out 
of  sheer  spite  against  the  late  Mr.  Fairlie  for  his  conduct 
in  the  affair  of  the  legacy.  Now,  however,  she  can  persist 
in  this  course  of  conduct  no  longer.  Sir  Percival  and 
Count  Fosco  are  old  and  fast  friends,  and  their  wives  will 
have  no  choice  but  to  meet  on  civil  terms.  Mme.  Fosco, 
in  her  maiden  days,  was  one  of  the  most  impertinent  wom- 
en I  ever  met  with — capricious,  exacting,  and  vain  to  the 
last  degree  of  absurdity.  If  her  husband  has  succeeded  in 
bringing  her  to  her  senses,  he  deserves  the  gratitude  of 
every  member  of  the  family — and  he  may  have  mine  to  be- 
gin with. 

1  am  becoming  anxious  to  know  the  Count.  He  is  the 
most  intimate  friend  of  Laura's  husband;  and,  in  that 
capacity,  he  excites  my  strongest  interest.  Neither  Laura 
nor  1  have  ever  seen  him.  AH  I  know  of  him  is  that  his 
accidental  presence,  years  ago,  on  the  steps  of  the  Trinita 
del  Monte  at  Rome,  assisted  Sir  Percival's  escape  from  rob- 
bery and  assassination,  at  the  critical  moment  when  he  was 
wounded  in  the  hand,  and  might,  the  next  instant,  have 
been  wounded  in  the  heart.  I  remember  also  that,  at  the 
time  of  the  late  Mr.  Fairlie's  absurd  objections  to  his  sis- 
ter's marriage,  the  Count  wrote  him  a  very  temperate  and 
sensible  letter  on  the  subject,  which,  I  am  ashamed  to  say, 
remained  unanswered.  This  is  all  I  know  of  Sir  Percival's 
friend.  I  wonder  if  he  will  ever  come  to  England?  I 
wonder  if  I  shall  like  him? 

My  pen  is  running  away  into  mere  speculation.  Let  me 
return  to  sober  matter  of  fact.  It  is  certain  that  Sir  Per- 
cival's reception  of  my  venturesome  proposal  to  live  with 
his  wife  was  more  than  kind — it  was  almost  affectionate. 
I  am  sure  Laura's  husband  will  have  no  reason  to  complain 
of  me,  if  I  can  only  go  on  as  I  have  begun.  I  have  already 
declared  him  to  be  handsome,  agreeable,  full  of  good  feel- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  185 

fng  toward  the  unfortunate,  and  full  of  affectionate  kind« 
uess  toward  me.  Keally,  I  hardly  know  myself  again,  iu 
my  new  character  of  Sir  Percival's  warmest  friend. 

2Qth. — I  hate  Sir  Percival!  1  flatly  deny  his  good  looks. 
I  consider  him  to  be  eminently  ill-tempered  and  disagreea- 
ble, and  totally  wanting  in  kindness  and  good  feeling. 
Last  night  the  cards  for  the  married  couple  were  sent 
home.  Laura  opened  the  packet,  and  saw  her  future  name 
in  print,  for  the  first  time.  Sir  Percival  looked  over  her 
shoulder  familiarly  at  the  new  card  which  had  already 
transformed  Miss  Fairlie  into  Lady  Glyde — smiled  with  the 
most  odious  self-complacency — and  whispered  something  in 
her  ear.  I  don't  know  what  it  was — Laura  has  refused  to 
tell  me — but  1  saw  her  face  turn  to  such  a  deathly  white- 
ness that  1  thought  she  would  have  fainted.  He  took  no 
notice  of  the  change;  he  seemed  to  be  barbarously  uncon- 
scious that  he  had  said  anything  to  pain  her.  All  my  old 
feelings  of  hostility  toward  him  revived  on  the  instant;  and 
all  the  hours  that  have  passed  since  have  done  nothing  to 
dissipate  them.  I  am  more  unreasonable  and  more  unjust 
than  ever.  In  three  words — how  glibly  my  pen  writes 
them! — in  three  words,  1  hate  him. 

2\st. — Have  the  anxieties  of  this  anxious  time  shaken 
me  a  little,  at  last?  I  have  been  writing,  for  the  last  few 
days,  in  a  tone  of  levity  which,  Heaven  knows,  is  far  enough 
from  my  heart,  and  which  it  has  rather  shocked  me  to  dis- 
cover on  looking  back  at  the  entries  in  my  journal. 

Perhaps  I  may  have  caught  the  feverish  excitement  of 
Laura's  spirits  for  the  last  week.  If  so,  the  fit  has  already 
passed  away  from  me,  and  has  left  me  in  a  very  strange 
state  of  mind.  A  persistent  idea  has  been  forcing  itself  on 
tny  attention,  ever  since  last  night,  that  something  will 
yet  happen  to  prevent  the  marriage.  What  has  produced 
this  singular  fancy?  Is  it  the  indirect  result  of  my  appre- 
hensions for  Laura's  future?  Or  has  it  been  unconsciously 
suggested  to  me  by  the  increasing  restlessness  and  irrita- 
bility which  I  have  certainly  observed  in  Sir  Percival's  man- 
ner as  the  wedding-day  draws  nearer  and  nearer?  Impos- 
sible to  say.  I  know  that  I  have  the  idea — surely  the 
wildest  idea,  under  the  circumstances,  that  ever  entered  a 


1S6  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

woman's  head? — but,  try  as  I  may,  1  cau  not  trace  it  back 
lo  its  source. 

This  last  day  has  been  all  confusion  and  wretchedness, 
[low  can  1  write  about  it? — and  yet  I  must  write.  Any- 
thing is  better  than  brooding  over  my  own  gloomy  thoughts. 

Kind  Mrs.  Vesey,  whom  we  have  all  too  much  over- 
looked and  forgotten  of  late,  innocently  caused  us  a  sad 
morning,  to  begin  with.  She  has  beci,  for  months  past, 
secretly  making  a  warm  Shetland  shawl  for  her  dear  pupil 
— a  most  beautiful  and  surprising  piece  of  work  to  be  done 
by  a  woman  of  her  age  and  with  her  habits.  The  gift  was 
presented  this  morning;  and  poor  warm-hearted  Laura 
«5ompletely  broke  down  when  the  shawl  was  put  proudly 
on  her  shoulders  by  the  loving  old  friend  and  guardian  of 
her  motherless  childhood.  I  was  hardly  allowed  time  to 
quiet  them  both,  or  even  to  dry  my  own  eyes,  when  I  was 
sent  for  by  Mr.  Fairlie,  to  be  favored  with  a  long  recital  of 
his  arrangements  for  the  preservation  of  his  own  tran- 
quillity on  the  wedding-day. 

"  Dear  Laura  "  was  to  receive  his  present — a  shabby 
ring,  with  her  affectionate  uncle's  hair  for  an  ornament, 
instead  of  a  precious  stone,  and  with  a  heartless  French  in- 
scription inside,  about  congenial  sentiments  and  eternal 
friendship  —  "dear  Laura"  was  to  receive  this  tender 
tribute  from  my  hands  immediately,  so  that  she  ziiight  have 
plenty  of  time  to  recover  from  the  agitation  produced  by 
the  gift,  before  she  appeared  in  Mr.  Fairlie's  presence. 
"  Dear  Laura  "  was  to  pay  him  a  little  visit  that  evening, 
and  to  be  kind  enough,  again,  not  to  make  a  scene. 
"  Dear  Laura  "  was  to  look  in  once  more,  for  the  third 
time,  before  going  away,  but  without  harrowing  his  feel- 
ings by  saying  when  she  was  going  away,  and  without  tears 
— *'  in  the  name  of  pity,  in  the  name  of  everything,  dear 
Marian,  that  is  most  affectionate  and  most  domestic  and 
most  delightfully  and  charmingly  self-composed,  without 
tears!"  I  was  so  exasperated  by  this  miserable,  selfish 
trifling,  at  such  a  time,  that  I  should  certainly  have 
shocked  Mr.  Fairlie  by  some  of  the  hardest  and  rudest 
truths  he  had  ever  heard  in  his  life,  if  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Arnold  from  Polesdean  had  not  called  me  away  to  new 
duties  down-stairs. 

The  rest  of  the  day  is  indescribable.  I  believe  no  one  in 
khe  house  really  knev/  bow  it  passed.     The  confusion  oi 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  187 

email  events,  all  huddled  together  one  on  the  other,  bewil- 
dered everybody.  There  were  dresses  sent  home  that  had 
been  forgotten;  there  were  trunks  to  be  packed  and  uii- 
patiked,  and  packed  again;  there  were  presents  from  fr  ends 
far  and  near,  friends  high  and  low.  We  were  all  needless- 
ly hurried,  all  nervously  expectant  of  the  morrow.  Sir 
Percival,  especially,  was  too  restless,  now,  to  remain  five 
aiinutes  together  in  the  same  place.  That  short,  sharp 
cough  of  his  troubled  him  more  than  ever.  He  was  in 
and  out-ol'-doors  all  day  long;  and  he  seemed  to  grow  so 
inquisitive,  ou  a  sudden,  that  he  questioned  the  very 
strangers  who  (jame  on  small  errands  to  the  house.  Add 
to  all  this  the  one  perpetual  thought,  m  Laura's  mind  and 
mine,  that  we  were  to  part  the  next  day,  and  the  haunting 
dread,  unexpressed  by  either  of  us,  and  yet  ever  present  to 
both,  that  this  deploiable  marriage  might  prove  to  be  the 
one  fatal  error  of  her  life  and  the  one  hopeless  sorrow  of 
mine.  For  the  first  time  in  all  the  years  of  our  close  and 
happy  intercourse  we  almost  avoided  lookiiig  each  other  in 
the  face;  and  we  refrained,  by  common  consent,  from 
speaking  together  in  private  through  the  whole  evening. 
1  can  dwell  on  it  no  longer.  Whatever  future  sorrows  may 
be  in  store  for  me,  I  shall  always  look  back  on  this  twenty- 
first  of  December  as  the  most  comfortless  and  most  misera- 
ble day  of  my  life. 

I  am  writing  these  lines  in  the  solitude  of  my  own  room, 
long  after  midnight;  having  just  come  back  from  a  stolen 
look  at  Laura  in  her  pretty  little  white  bed— the  bed  she 
has  occupied  since  the  days  of  her  girlhood. 

There  she  lay,  unconscious  that  1  was  looking  at  her — 
quiet,  more  quiet  than  1  had  dared  to  hope,  but  not  sleep- 
ing. The  glimmer  of  the  night-light  showed  me  that  her 
ej^es  were  only  partially  closed;  the  traces  of  tears  glistened 
between  her  eyelids.  My  little  keepsake— only  a  brooch  — 
lay  on  the  table  at  her  bedside,  with  her  prayer-book,  ai^d 
the  miniature  portrait  of  her  father,  which  she  takes  with 
her  wherever  she  goes.  I  waited  a  moment,  looking  at 
her  from  behind  her  pillow,  as  she  lay  beneath  me,  with 
one  arm  and  hand  resting  on  the  white  coverlet,  so  still,  so 
quietly  breathing,  that  the  frill  on  her  night-dress  never 
moved — I  waited,  looking  at  her,  as  I  have  seen  her  thou- 
sands of  times,  as  I  shall  never  see  her  again — and  then 
stole  back  to  my  room.      My  own  love!    with  all  your 


188  jftlK    WOMAN     IN    WHITE. 

wealtn,  and  all  your  beauty,  how  friendless  you  are!  The 
one  man  who  would  give  his  heart's  life  to  serve  you  is  far 
away,  tossing,  this  stormy  night,  on  the  awful  sea.  Who 
else  is  left  to  you?  No  father,  no  brother — no  living  creat- 
ure but  the  helpless,  useless  woman  who  writes  these  sad 
lines,  and  watches  by  you  for  tlie  morning,  in  sorrow  that 
she  can  not  compose,  in  doubt  that  she  can  not  conquer. 
Oh,  what  a  trust  is  to  be  placed  in  that  man's  hands  to- 
morrow! If  ever  he  forgets  it;  if  ever  he  injures  a  hair  0/ 
her  head! — 

The  Twenty-second  of  Decemoer.  Seven  o'clock. — A 
wild,  unsettled,  morning.  She  has  just  risen — better  and 
calmer,  now  that  the  time  has  come,  than  she  was  yester- 
day. 

Ten  o'cheJc. — She  is  dressed.  We  have  kissed  each 
other;  we  have  promised  each  other  not  to  lose  courage. 
1  am  away  for  a  moment  in  my  own  room.  In  the  whirl 
and  confusion  of  my  thoughts  1  can  detect  that  strange 
fancy  of  some  hinderance  happening  to  stop  the  marriage, 
still  hanging  about  my  mind.  Is  it  hanging  about  his 
mind  too?  1  see  him  from  the  window,  moving  hither  and 
thither  uneasily  among  the  carriages  at  the  door.  How 
can  I  write  such  folly!  The  marriage  is  a  certainty.  In 
less  than  half  an  hour  we  start  for  the  church. 


Eleven  o'cloch. — It  is  all  over.     They  are  married. 


Three  o'clock. — They  are  gone!    1  am  blind  with  crynig 
■1  can  write  no  more — 


THE    WOilAN    IN    WHITE.  189 


THE  SECOND  EPOCH. 


The  Story  continued  by  Marian  Halcombe. 
I. 

s|e  +  *  *  * 

Blacewater  Park,  Hampshire. 

June  llih,  1S50. — Six  mouths  to  look  back  on — six 
long,  lonely  mouths,  since  Laura  and  I  last  saw  each  otherl 

How  many  days  have  I  still  to  wait?  Only  one!  To- 
morrow, the  twelfth,  the  travelers  return  to  England.  I 
can  hardly  realize  my  own  happiness;  I  can  hardly  be- 
lieve that  the  next  four-and-twenty  hours  will  complete 
the  last  day  of  separation  between  Laura  and  me. 

She  and  her  husband  have  been  in  Italy  all  the  winter, 
and  afterward  in  the  Tyrol.  They  come  back,  accompanied 
by  Count  Fosco  and  his  wife,  who  propose  to  settle  some- 
where in  the  neighborhood  of  London,  and  who  have  en- 
gaged to  stay  at  Black  water  Park  for  the  summer  months, 
before  deciding  on  a  place  of  residence.  So  long  as  Laura 
returns,  no  matter  who  returns  witli  her.  Sir  Percival 
may  fill  the  house  from  floor  to  ceiling,  if  he  likes,  on  con- 
dition that  his  wife  and  I  inhabit  it  together. 

Meanwhile,  here  I  am,  established  at  Blackwater  Park, 
"  the  ancient  and  interesting  seat  "  (as  the  county  history 
obligingly  informs  me)  "of  Sir  Percival  Clyde,  Bai't."— 
and  the  future  abiding-place  (as  I  may  now  venture  to  add, 
on  my  account)  of  plain  Marian  Elalcombe,  spinster,  now 
settled  in  a  snug  little  sitting-room,  with  a  cup  of  tea  by 
her  side,  and  all  her  earthly  possessions  ranged  round  her 
in  three  boxes  and  a  bag. 

I  left  Limmeridge  yesterday,  having  received  Laura's 
delightful  letter  from  Paris  the  day  before.  I  had  been 
previously  uncertain  whether  I  was  to  meet  them  in  Lon- 
don or  in  Hampshire;  but  this  last  letter  informed  me  that 
Sir  Percival  proposed  to  land  at  Southampton,  and  to  travel 
straight  on  to  his  country  house.  He  has  spent  so  much 
money  abroad  that  he  has  none  left  to  defray  the  expenses 


190  THE     WOMAN"    IN    'vVHITE. 

of  living  in  Loudoa  for  the  reniaindei-  of  the  season;  and 
he  is  ecououiically  resolved  to  pass  the  summer  and  autumti 
quietly  at  Bh^ck water.  Laura  has  liad  more  than  enougli 
of  excitement  and  change  of  scene,  and  is  pleased  at  the 
prospect  of  country  tranciuillity  and  retirement  which  her 
husband's  prudence  provides  for  her.  As  for  me,  I  am  ready 
to  be  happy  anywhere  in  her  society.  We  are  all,  therefore^ 
well  contented  in  our  various  ways,  to  begin  with. 

Last  night  1  slept  in  Loiidoj],  and  was  delayed  there  so 
long  to-day,  by  various  calls  aud  commissions,  that  I  did 
not  reach  Blackwater,  this  evening,  till  after  dusk. 

Judging  by  my  vague  impressions  of  the  place  thus  far,  it 
is  the  exact  opposite  of  Limmeridge. 

The  house  is  situated  on  a  dead  flat,  and  seems  to  be 
shut  in— almost  sutfoi:'.ated,  to  my  north-country  notions — ■ 
by  trees.  1  have  seen  nobody  but  the  man-servant  who 
opened  the  door  to  me,  at]d  the  housekeeper,  a  very  civil 
person,  who  showed  me  the  way  to  my  own  room,  aud  got 
me  my  tea.  1  have  a  nice  little  boudoir  and  bedroom,  at 
the  end  of  a  long  passage  on  the  first  floor.  The  servants 
and  some  of  the  spare  rooms  are  on  the  second  floor;  and 
all  the  living-rooms  are  on  the  ground  floor.  I  have  not 
seen  one  of  them  yet,  and  1  know  nothing  about  the  house, 
except  that  one  wing  of  it  is  said  to  be  five  hundred  years 
old,  that  it  had  a  moat  round  it  once,  aud  that  it  gets  the 
name  of  Black  water  from  a  lake  in  the  park. 

Eleven  o'clock  has  just  struck,  in  a  ghostly  and  solemn 
manner,  from  a  turret  over  the  center  of  the  house,  which 
I  saw  when  I  came  in.  A  large  dog  has  been  woke,  ajv 
parently  by  the  sound  of  the  bell,  and  is  howling  and 
yawning  drearily,  somewhere  round  a  corner.  I  hear 
eohning  footsteps  in  the  passages  below,  and  the  iron 
thumping  of  bolts  and  bars  at  the  house  door.  The  serv- 
ants are  evidently  going  to  bed.  Shall  I  follow  their  ex- 
ample? 

No:  I  am  not  half  sleepy  enough.  Sleepy,  did  1  say?  I 
feel  as  if  1  should  never  close  my  eyes  again.  The  bare 
anticipation  of  seeing  that  dear  face  and  hearing  that  well- 
known  voice  to-morrow  keeps  me  in  a  perpetual  fever  of  ex- 
citement. If  1  only  had  the  piivileges  of  a  man,  I  would 
order  out  Sir  Percival's  best  horse  instantly,  aud  tear  away 
on  a  night-gallop,  eastward,  to  meet  the  rising  sun — a  lone-, 
hard,  heavy,  ceaseless  gallop  of  hours  and  hours.,  like  tnt 


THE    WOMAN     IN     WHITE.  191 

famous  !iii;hu'ayniaii's  ride  to  York.  Being,  however, 
nothing  but  a  woman,  condemned  to  patience,  propriety, 
and  petticoats,  for  life,  1  must  respect  the  housekeeper's 
opinions,  and  try  to  compose  myself  in  some  feeble  and 
feminine  way. 

Rending  is  out  of  the  question — 1  can't  fix  luy  attention 
on  books.  Let  me  try  if  I  can  write  myself  into  sleepiness 
and  fatigue.  My  journal  has  been  very  much  neglected 
of  late.  What  Ccin  I  recall— standing,  as  I  now  do,  on  the 
threshold  of  a  new  life,  of  persons  and  events,  of  chances 
and  changes,  during  the  past  six  months — the  long,  weary, 
empty  interval  since  Laura's  wedding-day? 

Walter  Hartright  is  uppermost  in  my  memory,  and  he 
passes  first  in  the  shadowy  procession  of  my  absent  friends. 
I  received  a  few  lines  from  him  aiter  the  landing  of  the  ex- 
pedition in  Honduras,  written  more  cheerfully  and  hope- 
fully than  he  has  written  yet.  A  month  or  six  weeks  later, 
I  saw  an  extract  from  an  American  newspaper,  describing 
the  departure  of  the  adventurers  on  their  inland  journey. 
They  were  last  seen  entering  a  wild  primeval  forest,  each 
man  with  his  rifle  on  his  shoulder  and  his  baggage  at  his 
back.  Since  that  time  civilization  has  lost  all  trace  of 
them.  Not  a  line  more  have  I  received  from  Walter,  not 
a  fragment  of  news  from  the  expedition  has  appeared  iu 
any  of  the  public  journals. 

The  same  dense,  disheartening  obscurity  hangs  over  the 
fate  and  fortunes  of  Anne  Oatherick,  and  her  companion, 
Mrs.  Clements.  Nothing  whatever  has  been  heard  of 
either  of  them.  Whether  they  are  iu  the  country  or  out 
of  it,  whether  they  are  living  or  dead,  no  one  knows. 
Even  Sir  Peroival's  solicitor  has  lost  all  hope,  and  has  or- 
dered the  useless  search  after  the  fugitives  to  be  finally 
given  up. 

Our  good  old  friend  Mr.  Giluiore  has  met  with  a  sad 
check  in  his  active  professional  career.  Early  in  the  spring 
we  were  alarmed  by  hearing  that  he  had  been  found  in- 
sensible at  his  desk,  and  that  the  seizure  was  pronounced  to 
be  an  apoplectic  fit.  He  had  been  long  complaining  of 
fullness  and  oppression  in  the  head,  and  his  doctor  had 
u'arned  him  of  the  consequences  that  would  follow  his  per- 
sistency iu  continuing  to  work  early  and  late,  as  if  he  was 
still  a  young  man.  The  result  now  is  that  he  has  been 
positively  ordered  to  keep  our  of  his  ofEce  for  a  year  to 


192  THE     WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

come  at  least,  and  to  seek  repose  of  bodyaiid  relief  of  mind 
by  altogetiier  chai^j^ing  his  usual  mode  of  life.  The  busi- 
ness is  left,  accorLliiigly,  to  be  carried  ou  by  his  partner, 
and  he  is  himself,  at  this  moment,  away  in  Germany, 
visiting  some  relations  who  are  settled  there  in  mercantile 
pursuits.  Thus  another  true  frii^iid  and  trustworthy  ad- 
viser is  lost  to  us — lost,  1  earnestly  hope  and  trust,  for  a 
time  only. 

Poor  Mrs.  Vesey  traveled  with  rne  as  far  as  London.  It 
was  impossible  to  abandon  her  to  solitude  at  Limmeridge, 
after  Laura  and  I  had  both  left  the  house,  and  we  have 
arranged  that  she  is  to  live  with  an  unmarried  younger 
sister  of  hers  who  keeps  a  school  at  Olapham.  8he  is  to 
come  here  this  autumn  to  visit  her  pupil — I  might  almost 
say  iier  adopted  child,  1  saw  the  good  old  lady  safe  to  her 
destination,  and  left  hei'  in  the  care  of  her  relative,  quietly 
happy  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  Laura  again  in  a  te\r 
months'  time. 

As  for  Mr.  Fairlie,  I  believe  I  am  guilty  of  no  injustice 
if  I  describe  him  as  being  unutterably  relieved  by  having 
the  house  clear  of  us  women.  The  idea  of  his  missing  his 
niece  is  simply  jireposterous — he  used  to  let  months  pass, 
in  the  old  time?,  without  attemi)ting  to  see  her — and,  in 
my  case  and  Mrs.  Vesey 's,  I  talce  leave  to  consider  his 
telling  us  both  that  he  was  half  heait-bruken  at  our  de- 
parture to  be  equivalent  to  a  confession  that  he  was  secretly 
rejoiced  to  get  rid  of  us.  His  hist  caprice  has  led  him  to 
keep  two  photographers  incessantly  employed  in  produc- 
ing sun-pictures  of  all  the  treasures  and  curiosities  in  his 
possession.  One  complete  copy  of  the  collection  of  photo- 
graphs is  to  be  presented  to  the  Mechanics'  Institution  of 
Carlisle,  mounted  on  the  finest  card-board,  with  ostenta- 
tious red-letter  inscriptions  umlernealh.  "  Madonna  and 
Child,  by  Raphael.  In  the  possession  of  Frederick  Fairlie, 
Escjuire. "  "  Copper  coin  of  the  period  of  Tiglath-pileser. 
In  the  possessionof  Frederick  Fairlie,  Esquire. "  "  Unique 
Rembrandt  etching.  Known  all  over  Europe  as  '  The 
Smudge,'  from  a  printer's  blot  in  (he  corner,  which  existg 
in  no  other  copy.  Valued  at  three  hundred  guineas.  In 
the  possession  of  Frederick  Fairlie,  Esq.''  Dozens  of  pho- 
tographs of  this  sort,  and  all  inscribed  in  this  manner,  were 
completed  before  I  left  Cumberland;  and  hundreds  more 
femaia  to  be  done.    With  this  new  interest  to  occupy  him, 


THE     AVOMAN     IN     V.  KITE.  193 

Mr.  Fairlie  will  be  a  happy  man  for  mouths  and  months  to 
come;  and  the  two  unfortunate  ])hotographers  will  share 
the  social  martyrdom  which  he  has  hithurto  intlictod  on 
bis  valet  aloue. 

So  much  for  the  persons  and  events  which  hold  the  fore- 
most place  in  my  memor}'.  What,  \sxt,  of  the  one  person 
who  holds  the  foremost  place  in  my  heart?  Laura  has 
been  present  to  my  thoughts  all  the  while  1  have  been 
writing:;  these  lines.  Wliat  can  I  recall  of  her,  during  the 
past  six  months,  befo;e  1  close  my  journal  for  the  night? 

I  have  only  her  letters  to  guide  me;  and,  on  the  most  im- 
portant of  ail  the  cjiiestiop.s  uliicii  our  correspondence  can 
discuss,  ev^ry  one  of  those  letters  leaves  me  in  the  dark. 

Does  he  treat  her  kindly?  Is  she  happier  now  than  she 
was  when  1  parted  with  her  on  the  wedding-day?  All  my 
letters  have  contained  these  two  inquiries,  put  more  or  less 
directly,  now  in  one  form,  and  now  in  another;  and  all, 
on  that  point  only,  have  remained  without  reply,  or  have 
been  answered  as  if  my  cjuestions  merely  related  to  the 
state  of  her  health.  She  iriforms  m.e,  over  aiid  over  again, 
that  she  is  perfectly  Uifll;  that  traveling  agrees  with  her; 
that  she  is  getting  l^hrough  the  winter,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  without  catching  cold — but  not  a  word  can  I  find 
anywhere  which  tells  nie  plainly  that  she  is  reconciled  to 
her  marriage,  and  that  slie  Ciin  now  look  back  to  the  twenty- 
second  of  December  without  Muy  bitt.er  feelings  of  repent- 
ance and  regret.  The  name  of  her  husband  is  only  men- 
tioned in  her  letters  as  slie  might  mention  the  name  of  a 
friend  who  was  traveling  with  them,  and  who  had  under- 
taken to  make  all  the  arrangements  for  the  journey.  "  Sir 
Percival  "  has  settled  that  we  leave  on  such  a  day;  "  Sir 
Percival  "  has  decided  that  we  travel  by  such  a  road. 
Sometimes  she  writes  "  Percival ''  only,  but  very  seldom 
■ — iu  liine  cases  out  of  ten  she  gives  him  his  title, 

I  can  not  find  that  h's  habits  and  opinions  have  changed 
and  colored  hers  in  anv  single  particular.  The  usual  moral 
transformation  which  is  insensibly  wrought  in  a  young, 
fresh,  sensitive  wom.ui  by  her  marriage,  seems  never  to 
have  taken  j^lace  in  Lauia.  8he  writes  of  her  own  thoughts 
and  impressions,  fimidst  all  the  wonders  she  has  seen, 
exactly  as  she  might  have  written  to  some  one  else  if  I  had 
been  traveling  with  her  instead  of  her  husband.  I  see  no 
betrayal  anywhere  of  syuipatliy  of  any  kiud  existing  be- 


194  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHTiZ. 

tween  thetn.  Even  when  she  wanders  from  the  subject  of 
her  travels,  and  occujjies  herself  with  the  prospects  iliat 
await  her  in  England,  her  speculations  are  busied  with  iier 
future  as  my  sister,  and  persistently  neglect  to  notice  her 
future  as  Sir  Percival's  wife.  In  all  this  there  is  no  under- 
tone of  complaint,  to  warn  me  that  she  is  absolutely  un- 
happy in  her  married  life.  The  impression  I  have  derived 
from  our  correspondence  does  not,  thank  God,  lead  me  to 
any  such  distressing  conclusion  as  that.  1  only  see  a  sad 
torpor,  an  unchangeable  indifference,  v\hen  1  turn  my 
mind  from  her  in  the  old  character  of  a  sister,  and  look  at 
her,  through  the  medium  of  her  letters,  in  the  new  char- 
acter of  a  wife.  In  other  words,  it  is  always  Laura  Fairlie 
who  has  been  writing  to  me  for  the  last  six  months,  and 
never  Lady  Glyde. 

The  strange  silence  which  she  maintains  on  the  subject 
of  her  husband's  character  and  conduct,  she  preserves 
with  almost  equal  resolution  in  the  few  references  which 
her  later  letters  contain  to  the  name  of  her  husband "s 
bosom  friend.  Count  Fosco. 

For  some  unexplained  reason,  the  Count  and  his  wife  ap- 
pear to  have  changed  their  plans  abruptly,  at  the  end  of 
last  autumn,  and  to  have  gone  to  Vienna,  instead  of  going 
to  Rome,  at  which  latter  place  Sir  Percival  had  ex^^ected 
to  find  them  when  he  left  England.  They  only  quitted 
Vienna  in  the  spring,  and  traveled  as  far  as  the  Tyrol  to 
meet  the  bride  and  bridegroom  on  their  homeward  journey. 
Laura  writes  readily  enough  about  the  meeting  with  Mme. 
Fosco,  and  assures  me  that  she  has  found  her  aunt  so  much 
changed  for  the  better — so  much  quieter  and  so  much 
more  sensible  as  a  wife  than  she  was  as  a  single  woman — 
that  I  shall  hardly  know  her  again  when  1  sec  her  here. 
But  on  the  subject  of  Count  Fosco  (who  interests  me  infin- 
itely more  than  his  wife),  Laura  is  provokingly  circumspect 
and  silent.  She  only  says  that  he  puzzles  her,  and  that 
she  will  not  tell  me  what  her  impression  of  him  is  until  I 
have  seen  him,  and  formed  my  own  opinion  first. 

This,  to  my  mind,  looks  ill  for  the  Count.     Laura  has 
preserved,  far  more  perfectly  than  most  peojjle  do  in  late 
life,  the  child's  subtle  faculty  of  knowing  a  friend  by  in' 
stinct;  and  if  1  am  right  in  assuming  that  her  first  impreS' 
?:on  of  Count  Fosco  has  not  been  favorable,  1,  for  one,  am 
i.'j  boine  danger  of  doubling  and  distrusting  that  illustrious 


THR    WOJIAN    IN     WTirTE.  195 

foreigner  before  I  have  so  much  as  set  my  eyes  on  liitn.  But 
patience,  patience;  this  uncertainty,  and  many  uncertain- 
ties more,  can  not  last  much  longer.  To-morrow  will  see 
all  my  doubts  in  a  fair  way  of  being  cleared  up,  sooner  or 
later. 

To; el ve  o'clock  *ias  struck;  and  1  have  just  come  back 
t''  dose  these  pap^ei,  after  looking  out  at  my  open  window. 

It  is  a  still,  suj'iry,  moonless  night.  The  stars  are  dull 
arid  few.  The  troes  that  shut  out  the  view  on  all  sides 
look  dimly  black  and  solid  in  the  distance,  like  a  great 
wall  of  rock,  k  hear  the  croaking  of  frogs,  faint  and  far 
off,  and  the  ecnoes  of  the  great  clock  hum  in  the  airless 
calm  long  after  the  strokes  have  ceased.  I  wonder  how 
Blackwater  Park  will  look  in  the  day-time?  1  don't  alto- 
gether like  it  by  night. 

12ih. — A  day  of  investigations  and  discoveries — a  more 
interesting  day,  for  many  reasons,  than  I  had  ventured  to 
anticipate. 

I  began  my  sight-seeing,  of  course,  with  the  house. 

The  main  body  of  the  building  is  of  the  time  of  that  highly 
overrated  woman.  Queen  Elizabeth.  On  the  ground  floor 
there  are  two  hugely  long  galleries,  with  low  ceilings,  lying 
parallel  with  each  other,  and  rendered  additionally  dark 
and  dismal  by  hideous  family  portraits — every  one  of 
which  I  snould  like  to  burn.  The  rooms  on  the  floor  above 
the  two  galleries  are  kept  in  tolerable  repair,  but  are  very 
seldom  used.  The  civil  housekeeper  who  acted  as  my  guide 
offered  to  show  me  over  them,  but  considerately  added  that 
she  feared  1  should  find  them  rather  out  of  order.  My 
respect  for  the  integrity  of  my  own  petticoats  and  stocking? 
infinitely  exceeds  my  respect  for  all  the  Elizabethan  bed- 
rooms in  the  kingdom;  so  I  positively  declined  exploring 
the  upper  regions  of  dust  and  dirt  at  the  risk  of  soiling 
my  nice  clean  clothes.  The  housekeeper  said,  "  I  am 
quite  of  your  opinion,  miss,"  and  appeared  to  think  me  the 
most  sensible  woman  she  had  met  with  for  a  long  time 
past. 

So  much,  then,  for  the  main  building.  The  two  wings 
are  added  at  either  end  of  it.  The  half-ruined  wing  on  the 
left  (as  you  approach  the  house)  was  once  a  place  of  resi- 
dence standing  by  itself,  and  was  built  in  the  fourteenth 
century.    One  of  Sir  Percival's  maternal  ancestors — 1  don't 


196  THE    WOMASr    IN    WHITE. 

remember,  and  don't  care,  which — tacked  on  the  main 
building,  at  right  angles  to  it,  in  the  aforesaid  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth's time.  The  housekeeper  told  me  that  the  architect- 
ure of  "  the  old  wing,"  both  outside  and  inside,  was 
considered  remarkably  fine  by  good  judges.  Ou  further 
investigation,  I  discovered  that  good  judges  could  only  ex- 
ercise their  abilities  on  Sir  Percival's  piece  of  antiquity  br 
previously  dismissing  from  their  minds  all  fear  of  damp, 
darkness,  and  rats.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  unhesi- 
tatingly acknowledged  myself  to  be  no  judge  at  all,  and 
suggested  that  we  should  treat  "  the  old  wing  "  precisely 
,is  we  had  previously  treated  the  Elizabethan  bedrooms. 
Once  more  the  housekeeper  said,  "  1  aui  quite  of  your 
opinion,  miss,'^  and  once  more  she  looked  at  me  with 
undisguised  admiration  of  my  extraordinary  common 
sense. 

We  went  next  to  the  wing  on  the  right,  which  was  built, 
by  way  of  completing  the  wonderful  architectural  jumble 
at  Black  water  Park,  in  the  time  of  George  the  Second. 

This  is  the  hiibitable  part  of  the  house,  which  has  been 
repaired  and  redecorated  on  Laura's  account.  My  two 
rooms,  and  all  the  good  bedrooms  besides,  are  on  the  first 
floor;  and  the  basement  contains  a  drawing-room,  a  dining- 
room,  a  morning-room,  a  library,  and  a  pretty  little  boudoir 
for  Laura — all  very  nicely  ornamented  in  the  bright  mod- 
ern way,  and  all  very  elegantly  furnished  with  the  delight- 
ful modern  luxuries.  None  of  the  rooms  are  anything  like 
so  large  and  airy  as  our  rooms  at  Limmeridge;  but  they  all 
look  pleasant  to  live  in.  I  was  terribly  afraid,  from  what  I 
had  heard  .of  Blackwater  Park,  of  fatiguing  antique  chairs, 
and  dismal  stained  glass,  and  musty,  frouzy  hangings,  and 
all  the  barbarous  lumber  which  people  born  without  a  s.nse 
of  comfort  accumulate  about  them,  in  defiance  of  the  con- 
sideration due  to  the  convenience  of  their  friends.  It  is  an 
inexpressible  relief  to  find  that  the  nineteenth  century  has 
invaded  this  strange  future  home  of  mine,  and  has  swept 
the  dirty  "good  old  times"  out  of  the  way  of  our  daily 
life. 

J  dawdled  away  the  morning — part  of  the  time  in  the 
rooms  down-stairs,  and  part  out-of-doors,  in  the  great 
square  which  is  formed  by  the  three  sides  of  the  house  and 
by  the  lofty  iron  railings  and  gates  which  protect  it  in 
ilrout.     A  large  circular  fish-pond,  with  stone  sides,  and 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  197 

an  allegorical  leaden  monster  in  the  middle,  occupies  the 
center  of  the  square.  The  pond  itself  is  full  of  gold  and 
silver  fish,  and  is  encircled  by  a  broad  belt  of  the  softest 
turf  1  ever  tvalked  on.  I  loitered  here,  on  the  shady  side, 
pleasantly  enough,  till  luncheon -time,  and  after  that  took 
my  broad  straw  hat  and  wandered  out  alone,  in  the  warm, 
lovely  sunlight,  to  explore  the  grounds. 

Daylight  confirmed  the  impression  which  1  had  felt  the 
night  before,  of  there  being  too  many  trees  at  Blackvvater. 
The  house  is  stifled  by  them.  They  are  for  the  most  part 
young,  and  planted  far  too  thickly.  I  suspect  there  must 
have  been  a  ruinous  cutting  down  of  timber  all  over  the  es- 
tate before  Sir  Percival's  time,  and  an  angry  anxiety  on  the 
part  of  the  next  possessor  to  fill  up  all  the  gaps  as  thickly 
and  rapidly  as  possible.  After  looking  about  me  in  the 
front  of  tiie  house.  I  observed  a  flower  garden  on  my  left 
hand,  and  walked  toward  it,  to  see  what  1  could  discover 
in  that  direction. 

On  a  nearer  view,  the  garden  proved  to  be  small  and  poor 
and  ill-kept.  I  left  it  behind  me.  opened  a  little  gate  in  a 
ring  fence,  and  found  myself  in  a  jjlantation  of  fir-trees. 

A  pretty,  winding  path,  artificially  made,  led  me  on 
among  the  trees;  and  my  north-country  experience  soon 
informed  me  that  I  was  approaching  sandy,  heathy  ground. 
After  a  walk  of  more  than  half  a  mile,  I  should  think, 
among  the  firs,  the  path  took  a  sharp  turn;  the  trees 
abruptly  ceased  to  appear  on  either  side  of  me;  and  I  found 
myself  standing  suddenly  on  tne  margin  of  a  vast  open 
space,  and  looking  down  at  the  Blackwater  lake  from 
which  the  House  takes  its  name. 

The  ground,  shelving  away  below  me,  was  all  sand,  with 
a  few  little  heathy  hillocks  to  break  the  monotony  of  it  in 
certain  places.  The  lake  itself  had  evidently  once  flowed 
to  the  spot  on  which  1  stood,  and  had  been  gradually 
wasted  and  dried  up  to  less  than  a  third  of  its  former  size. 
1  saw  its  still,  stagnant  waters  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away 
from  me  in  the  hollow,  separated  into  pools  and  ponds 
by  twining  reeds  and  rushes, and  little  knoHs  of  earth.  On 
the  further  bank  from  me  the  trees  roge  thickly  again  anl 
shut  out  the  view,  and  east  their  black  shadows  on  the 
sluggish,  shallow  water.  As  1  walked  down  to  the  lake, 
I  saw  that  the  ground  on  its  further  side  was  damp  and 
marshy,  overgrown  with  rank  grass  acd  dismal  willows. 


(98  THE    WOMAN"    IX    WHITE. 

The  water,  which  was  clear  enough  on  the  open,  sandy  side, 
where  the  sun  shone,  looked  black  and  poisonous  opposite 
to  me,  where  it  lay  deeper  under  the  shade  of  the  spongy 
banks  and  the  rank  overhanging  thickets  and  tangled  trees. 
The  frogs  were  croaking,  and  the  rats  were  slipping  iq 
and  out  of  the  shadowy  water,  like  live  shadows  them- 
selves, as  I  got  nearer  to  tlie  marshy  side  of  the  lalvc.  I 
saw  here,  lying  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  water,  the  rot- 
ten  wreck  of  an  old,  overturned  boat,  with  a  sickly  spot  of 
sunlight  glimmering  through  a  gap  in  the  trees  on  its  dry 
surface,  and  a  snake  basking  in  the  midst  of  the  spot,  fan- 
tastically coiled,  and  treacherously  still.  Far  and  near 
the  view  suggested  the  same  dreary  impressions  of  solitude 
and  decay;  and  the  glorious  brightness  of  the  summer  sky 
overhead  seemed  only  (o  deepen  and  harden  the  gloom 
and  barrenness  of  the  wilderness  on  which  it  shone.  1 
turned  and  retraced  my  steps  to  the  high,  heathy  ground, 
directing  them  a  little  aside  from  ray  former  path,  toward  a 
shabby  old  wooden  shed  which  stood  on  the  outer  skirt  of 
the  fir  plantation,  and  which  had  hitherto  been  too  unim- 
portant to  share  my  notice  with  the  wide,  wild  prospect  of 
the  lake. 

On  approaching  the  shed,  1  found  that  it  had  once  been 
a  boat-house,  and  that  an  attempt  had  apparently,  beea 
made  to  convert  it  afterward  into  a  soi't  of  rude  arbor,  by 
placing  inside  it  a  fir-wood  seat,  and  a  few  stools,  and  a  table. 
1  entered  the  place  and  sat  down  for  a  little  while,  to  rest 
and  get  my  breath  again. 

1  had  not  been  in  the  boat-house  more  than  a  minute, 
when  it  struck  me  that  the  sound  of  my  own  quick  breath- 
ing was  very  strangely  echoed  by  something  beneath  me.  I 
listened  intently  for  a  moment,  and  beard  a  low,  thick, 
sobbing  breath  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  ground  un- 
der the  seat  which  1  was  occupying.  My  nerves  are  not 
easily  shaken  by  trifles,  but  on  this  occasion  1  started  to 
my  feet  in  a  fright — called  out — received  no  answer — sum- 
moned back  my  recreant  courage — and  looked  under  the 
seat. 

There,  crouched  up  in  the  furthest  corner,  lay  the  for- 
lorn cause  of  my  terror,  in  the  shape  of  a  poor  little  dog  — 
a  black-and-white  spaniel.  The  creature  moaned  feebly 
when  I  looked  at  it,  and  called  to  it,  but  never  stirred.  I 
tnoved  away  the  seat  and  looked  closer.  The  poor  little  dog'a 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  199 

eyes  were  glazing  fast,  and  there  were  spots  of  blood  on  its 
glossy  white  side.  The  misery  of  a  weak,  helpless,  dumb 
creature  is  surely  one  of  the  saddest  of  all  the  mournful 
sights  which  this  world  can  show.  I  lifted  the  poor  dog  in  my 
arms  as  gently  as  1  could,  and  contrived  a  sort  of  make- 
shift Jaammock  for  him  to  lie  in,  by  gathering  up  the  front 
of  my  dress  all  round  him.  In  this  way  I  took  the  creat- 
ure, as  painlessly  as  possible,  and  as  fast  as  possible,  back 
to  the  house. 

Finding  no  one  in  the  hall,  1  went  up  at  once  to  my  own 
sitting-room,  made  a  bed  for  the  dog  with  one  of  my  old 
shawls,  and  rang  the  bell.  The  largest  and  fattest  of  all 
possible  house-maids  answered  it,  in  a  state  of  cheerful 
stupidity  which  would  have  provoked  the  patience  of  a 
saint.  The  girl's  fat,  shapeless  face  actually  stretched 
into  a  broad  grin  at  the  sight  of  the  wounded  creature  on 
the  floor. 

"  What  do  you  see  there  to  laugh  at?"  1  asked,  as  an- 
grily as  if  she  had  been  a  servant  of  my  own.  "  Do  you 
know  whose  dog  it  is?" 

"No,  miss;  that  1  certainly  don't."  She  stopped,  and 
looked  down  at  the  spaniel's  injured  side — brightened  sud- 
denly with  the  irradiation  of  a  new  idea — and,  pointiong 
to  the  wound  with  a  chuckle  of  satisfaction,  said,  "  That's 
Baxter's  doings,  that  is." 

I  was  so  exasperated  that  1  could  have  boxed  her  ears. 
"  Baxter?"  1  said.     "  Who  is  the  brute  you  call  Baxter?" 

The  girl  grinned  again,  more  cheerfully  than  ever. 
"  Bless  you,  missi  Baxter's  the  keeper;  and  when  he  finds 
strange  dogs  hunting  about,  he  takes  and  shoots  'em.  It's 
keeper's  dooty,  miss.  1  think  that  dog  will  die.  Here's 
where  he's  been  shot,  ain't  it?  That's  Baxter's  doings, 
that  is.     Baxter's  doings,  miss,  and  Baxter's  dooty. " 

I  was  almost  wicked  enough  to  wish  that  Baxter  had  shot 
the  house-maid  instead  of  the  dog:.  Seeing  that  it  was  quite 
useless  to  expect  this  densely  impenetrable  personage  to  give 
mo  any  help  in  relieving  the  sutfering  creature  at  our  feet, 
1  told  her  to  request  the  housekeeper's  attendance  with  my 
compliments.  She  went  out  exactly  as  she  had  come  iu, 
grinning  from  ear  to  ear.  As  the  door  closed  on  her,  she 
said  to  herself,  softly,  "  It's  Baxter's  doings  and  Baxter's 
dooty — that's  what  it  is." 

The  housekeeper,  a  person  of  some  educatioL  du^  intelli- 


wo  THE    WOMAN     IN    WHITE. 

g.  tice,  thoughtfully  brought  upstairs  with  her  some  milk 
awd  some  warm  water.  The  instant  she  saw  the  dog  on 
the  floor  she  started  and  changed  color. 

"  Wiiy,  Lord  bless  me,"  cried  the  housekeeper,  "  that 
must  be  Mrs.  Catberick's  dog!" 

''  Whose?"  I  asked,  in  the  utmost  astonishment. 

*'  Mrs.  Catherick's.  You  seem  to  kuovv  Mrs.  Catherickj 
Miss  Halcombe?" 

"  Not  personally.  But  I  have  heard  of  her.  Does  she 
live  here?     Has  she  had  any  news  of  her  daughter?" 

"  No,  Miss  Halcombe.     She  came  here  to  ask  for  news." 

"  When?" 

"  Only  yesterday.  She  said  some  one  had  reported  that 
a  stranger  answering  to  the  description  of  her  daughter 
had  been  seen  in  our  neighborhood.  No  such  report  has 
reached  us  here,  and  no  such  report  was  known  in  the  vil- 
hige  when  1  sent  to  make  in'iuiries  there  on  Mrs.  Cather- 
ick's account.  She  cerUiinly  brought  this  poor  little  dog 
with  her  when  she  came,  and  I  saw  it  trot  out  after  her 
when  she  went  away.  1  suppose  the  creature  strayed  into 
the  plantations,  and  got  shot.  Where  did  you  find  it.  Miss 
Halcombe?" 

"  In  the  old  shed  that  looks  out  on  the  lake." 

"  Ah,  yes,  that  is  the  plantation  side,  and  the  poor  thing 
dragged  itself,  1  suppose,  to  the  nearest  shelter,  as  dogs  will, 
to  die.  If  you  can  moisten  its  lips  with  milk.  Miss  Hal- 
combe, I  will  wash  the  clotted  hair  from  the  wound.  I  am 
very  much  afraid  it  is  too  late  to  do  any  good.  However, 
we  can  but  try." 

Mrs.  Catherick!  The  name  still  rang  in  my  ears,  as  if 
the  housekeeper  had  only  that  moment  surj^rised  me  by 
uttering  it.  While  we  were  attending  to  the  dog,  the 
words  of  Walter  ETartright's  caution  to  me  returned  to  my 
memory.  "  If  Anne  Catherick  crosses  your  path,  make 
better  use  of  the  opportunity,  Miss  Halcombe,  than  I  made 
of  it. "  The  tinding  of  the  wounded  spaniel  had  led  me 
already  to  the  discovery  of  Mrs.  Catherick's  visit  to  Black- 
water  Park;  and  that  event  might  lead,  in  its  turn,  to  some- 
thing more.  I  determined  to  make  the  most  of  the  chance 
which  was  now  offered  to  me,  and  to  gain  as  much  informa- 
tion as  ]  could. 

"  Did  you  say  that  Mrs.  Catherick  lived  anywhere  in  this 
neighborhood?"  I  asked. 


THE    WOMAN"     IN     V'HITE.  2()1 

"  Oh,  dear,  !io,"  said  the  housekeeper.  "  She  lives  at 
Welmingham;  qiiite  at  the  other  end  of  the  county — five- 
and-tvventy  miles  off  at  least." 

"  1  suppose  you  have  known  Mrs.  Catherick  for  some 
years?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  Miss  Halcombe,  I  never  saw  her  be- 
fore she  came  here  yesterday.  I  had  heard  of  her,  [of 
oourse,  because  I  had  heard  of  Sir  Percival's  kindness  in 
putting  her  daughter  under  medical  care.  Mrs.  Catherick 
is  rather  a  strange  person  in  her  manners,  but  extremely 
respectable  looking.  She  seemed  sorely  put  out  when  she 
found  that  there  was  no  foundation — none,  at  least,  that 
any  of  ?/s  could  discover — for  the  report  of  her  daughter 
having  been  seen  in  this  neighborhood." 

''  1  am  rather  interested  about  Mrs.  Catherick,"  I  went 
on,  continuing  the  conversation  as  long  as  possible.  "I 
wish  I  had  arrived  here  soon  enough  to  see. her  yesterday. 
Did  she  stay  for  any  length  of  time.^" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  housekpeper,  "  she  stayed  for  sometime. 
And  I  think  she  would  have  remained  longer  if  I  had  not 
been  called  away  to  speak  to  a  strange  gentleman — a  gen- 
tleman who  came  to  ask  when  Sir  Percival  was  expected 
back.  Mrs.  Catherick  got  up  and  left  at  once,  when  she 
heard  the  maid  tell  me  what  the  visitor's  errand  was. 
She  said  to  me,  at  parting,  that  there  was  no  need  to  tell 
Sir  Percival  of  her  coming  here.  I  thought  that  rather 
an  odd  remark  to  make,  especially  to  a  person  in  my  re- 
sponsible situation." 

I  thought  it  an  odd  remark,  too.  Sir  Percival  had  cer- 
tainly led  me  to  believe,  at  Limmeridge,  that  the  most 
perfect  confidence  existed  between  himself  and  Mrs.  Cath- 
erick. If  that  was  the  case,  why  should  she  be  anxious 
to  have  her  visit  at  Blackwater  Park  kept  a  secret  from 
him? 

"  Probably,"  I  said,  seeing  that  the  housekeeper  expected 
me  to  give  my  opinion  on  Mrs.  Catherick's  parting  words — ■ 
"  probably  she  thought  the  announcement  of  her  visit 
might  vex  Sir  Percival  to  no  purpose,  by  reminding  him 
that  her  lost  daughter  was  not  found  yet.  Did  she  talk 
much  on  that  subject?" 

"Very  little,"  replied  the  housekeeper.  "She  talked 
principally  of  Sir  Percival,  and  asked  a  great  many  ques- 
tions about  where  he  had  been  traveling,  and  what  sort  of 


202  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

a  lady  his  new  wife  was.  She  seemed  to  be  more  soured 
and  put  out  than  distressed,  by  failing  to  find  any  traces 
of  her  daughter  in  these  parts,  '  I  give  her  up,'  were  the 
last  words  she  said  that  1  can  remember;  '  1  give  her  up, 
ma'am,  tor  lost.'  And  from  that  she  passed  at  once  to 
her  questions  about  Lady  Glyde;  wanting  to  know  if  she 
was  a  handsome,  amiable  lady,  comely  and  healthy  and 
young —  Ah,  dear!  1  thought  how  it  would  end.  Look, 
MissHalcombe!  the  poor  thiugis  out  of  its  misery  at  last!" 
The  dog  was  dead.  It  had  given  a  faint,  sobbing  cry,  it 
had  suffered  an  instant's  convulsion  of  the  limbs,  just  as 
those  last  words,  "  comely  and  healthy  and  young,^' 
dropped  from  the  housekeeper's  lips.  The  change  had 
happened  with  startling  sadness — in  one  moment  the 
creature  lay  lifeless  under  our  hands. 

Eight  o'clock. — 1  have  just  returned  from  dining  down- 
stairs, in  solitary  state.  The  sunset  is  burning  redly  on 
the  wilderness  of  trees  that  I  can  see  from  my  window,  and 
I  am  pouring  over  my  journal  again,  to  calm  my  impa- 
tience for  the  return  of  the  travelers.  They  ought  to  have 
arrived,  by  my  calculations,  before  this.  How  still  and 
lonely  the  house  is,  in  the  drowsy  evening  quiet!  Oh,  me! 
how  many  minutes  more  before  I  hear  the  carriage  wheels 
and  run  down-stairs  to  find  myself  in  Laura's  arras? 

The  poor  little  dog!  I  wish  my  first  day  at  Blackwater 
Park  had  not  been  associated  with  death,  though  it  is  only 
the  death  of  a  stray  animal. 

Welmingham — I  see,  on  looking  back  through  these 
private  pages  of  mine,  that  Welmingham  is  the  name  of 
the  place  where  Mrs.  Catherick  lives.  Her  note  is  still  in 
my  possession,  the  note  in  answer  to  that  letter  about  her 
unhappy  daughter  which  Sir  Percival  obliged  me  to  write. 
One  of  these  days,  when  1  can  find  a  safe  opportunity,  I  will 
take  the  note  with  me  by  way  of  introduction,  and  try 
what  I  can  make  of  Mrs.  Catherick  at  a  personal  inter- 
view. I  don't  understand  her  wishing  to  conceal  her  visit 
to  this  place  from  Sir  Percival's  knowledge;  and  I  don't 
feel  half  so  sure,  as  the  housekeeper  seems  to  do.  that  her 
daughter  Anne  is  not  in  the  neighborhood,  after  all. 
What  would  Walter  Hartright  have  said  in  this  emergency? 
Poor,  dear  Hartright!  1  am  beginning  to  feel  the  want  of 
his  honest  advice  and  his  willing  help  already. 


TTf.Z     WOMAN     IN     "U'lTTTR.  203 

Surely  1  heard  something.  Was  it  a  bustle  of  footsteps 
below  stairs?  Yes!  I  hear  the  horses'  feet;  1  hear  the  roll- 
ing wheels — 

11. 

June  15th. — The  confasioa  of  their  arrival  has  had  time 
to  subside.  Two  days  have  elapsed  since  the  return  of  the 
travelers,  and  that  interval  has  sufficed  to  put  the  newr 
machinery  of  our  lives  at  Black  water  Park  in  fair  working 
order.  I  may  now  return  to  my  journal,  with  some  little 
chance  of  being  able  to  continue  the  entries  iji  it  as  collect- 
edly as  usual. 

I  think  1  must  begin  by  putting  down  an  odd  remark 
which  has  suggested  itself  to  me  since  Lauia  came  back. 

When  two  members  of  a  family,  or  two  intimate  friends, 
are  separated,  and  one  goes  abroad  and  one  remains  at 
home,  the  return  of  the  relative  or  friend  who  has  been 
traveling  always  seems  to  place  the  relative  or  friend  who 
has  been  staying  at  home  at  a  painful  disadvantage,  when 
the  two  first  meet.  The  sudden  encounter  of  the  new 
thoughts  and  new  habits  eagerly  gained  in  the  one  case, 
with  the  old  thoughts  and  old  hubitti  passively  preserved 
in  the  other,  seems,  at  first,  to  part  the  sympathies  of  the 
most  loving  relatives  and  the  fondest  friends,  and  to  set  a 
sudden  strangeness,  unexpected  by  both  and  uncontrolla- 
ble by  both,  between  them  on  either  side.  After  the  first 
happiness  of  my  meeting  with  Laura  was  over,  after  we 
had  sat  down  together,  hand  in  hand,  to  recover  breath 
enough  and  calmness  enough  to  talk,  I  felt  this  strange- 
ness instantly,  and  1  could  see  that  she  felt  it  too.  It  has 
partially  worn  away,  now  that  we  have  fallen  back  into 
most  of  our  old  habits;  and  it  will  probably  disappear  be- 
fore long.  But  it  has  certainly  had  an  influence  over  the 
first  impressions  that  1  have  formed  of  her,  now  that  we 
are  living  together  again — for  which  reason  only  1  have 
thought  fit  to  mention  it  here. 

She  has  found  me  unaltered;  but  I  have  found  her 
changed. 

Changed  in  person,  and,  in  one  respect,  changed  in  char- 
acter. 1  can  not  absolutely  say  that  she  is  less  beautiful 
than  she  used  to  be;  I  can  only  say  that  she  is  less  beauti- 
ful to  me. 


804  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

Others,  wh'o  do  not  look  at  lior  wiih  my  eyes  and  my 
recollections,  would  probably  think  her  improved.  There 
is  more  color,  and  more  decision  and  roundness  of  outline, 
ill  her  face  than  there  used  to  be;  and  her  figure  seems 
more  firmly  set,  and  more  sure  and  easy  in  all  its  move- 
ments, than  it  was  in  her  maiden  days.  But  I  miss  some- 
thing when  I  look  at  her — something  that  once  belonged  tc 
the  happy,  innocent  life  of  Laura  Fairlie,  and  that  1  can 
not  find  in  Lady  Glyde.  There  was,  in  the  old  times,  a 
freshness,  a  softness,  an  ever-varying  and  yet  ever-remain- 
ing tenderness  of  beauty  in  her  face,  the  charm  of  which  it 
is  not  possible  to  express  in  words — or,  as  poor  Hartright 
used  often  to  say,  in  painting,  either.  This  is  gone.  I 
thought  1  saw  the  faint  reflection  of  it  for  a  moment, 
when  she  turned  pale  under  the  agitation  of  our  sudden 
meeting,  on  the  evening  of  her  return;  but  it  has  never  re- 
appeared since.  None  of  her  letters  had  prepared  me  for  a 
personal  change  in  her.  On  the  contrary,  they  had  led 
me  to  expect  that  her  marriage  had  left  her,  in  appearance, 
at  least,  quite  unaltered.  Perhaps  I  read  her  letters 
wrongly  in  the  past,  and  am  now  reading  her  face  wrongly 
in  the  present?  No  matter!  Whether  beauty  has  gained 
or  v>hether  it  has  lost  in  the  last  six  months,  the  separa- 
tion, either  way,  has  made  her  own  dear  self  more  precious 
to  me  than  ever — and  that  is  one  good  result  of  her  mur- 
liiige  at  any  rate! 

The  second  change,  the  change  that  I  have  observed  in 
her  character,  has  not  surprised  me,  because  I  was  pre- 
pared for  it,  in  this  case,  by  the  tone  of  her  letters.  Now 
that  she  is  at  home  again,  I  find  her  just  as  unwilling  to 
enter  into  any  details  on  the  subject  of  her  married  life,  as 
I  had  previously  found  her  all  through  the  time  of  our 
separation,  when  we  could  only  communicate  with  each 
other  by  writing.  At  the  first  approach  I  made  to  the 
forbidden  topic,  she  [)ut  her  hands  on  my  lips,  with  a  look 
and  gesture  which  tnuchingly,  almost  painfully,  recalled 
to  my  memory  the  days  of  her  girlhood  and  the  happy,  by- 
gone time  when  there  wei-e  no  secrets  between  us. 

"  Whenever  you  and  I  are  together,  Marian,'^  she  said, 
"  we  shall  both  be  happier  and  easier  with  each  other,  if 
we  accept  my  married  life  for  what  it  is,  and  say  and  think 
;»s  little  about  it  as  j)ossible.  I  would  tell  you  everything, 
darling,  about  myself/'  she  went;  on,  nervously  buckling 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  205 

and  unbuckliDg  the  ribbon  round  my  waist,  "  if  my  confi- 
dences could  only  end  there.  But  Uiey  could  not — they 
would  lead  me  into  confidences  about  my  husband,  too; 
and,  now  1  am  married,  I  think  I  had  better  avoid  them, 
for  his  sake,  and  for  your  sake,  and  for  mine.  I  don't 
say  that  they  would  distress  you,  or  distress  me — I  wouldn't 
have  you  think  that  for  the  world.  But — I  want  to  be  so 
happy,  now  I  have  got  you  back  again;  and  I  want  you  to 
be  so  happy  too — "  She  broke  off  abruptly,  and  looked 
round  the  room,  my  own  sitting-room,  in  which  we  were 
talking.  *' Ahl"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands  with  a 
bright  smile  of  recognition,  "  another  old  friend  found 
already!  Your  book-case,  Marian — your  dear  little  shabby 
old  satin-wood  book-case — how  glad  I  am  you  brought  it 
with  you  from  Limmeridgel  And  the  horrid,  heavy,  man's 
umbrella,  that  you  always  would  walk  out  with  when  it 
rained!  And,  first  and  foremost  of  all,  your  own  dear, 
dark,  clever,  gypsy- face,  looking  at  me  just  as  usual!  It 
is  so  like  home  again  to  be  here.  How  can  we  make  it  more 
like  home  still?  I  will  put  my  father's  portrait  in  your 
room  instead  of  in  mine— and  1  vv'iil  keep  all  my  little 
treasures  from  Limmeridge  here — and  we  will  pass  hours 
and  hours  every  day  with  these  four  friendly  walls  round 
us.  Oh,  Marian!"  she  said,  suddenly  seating  herself  on  a 
footstool  at  my  knees,  and  looking  up  earnestly  in  ray  face. 
"  promise  you  will  never  marry,  and  leave  me.  It  is  selfish 
to  say  so,  but  you  are  so  much  better  off  as  a  single  woman 
—  unless — unless  you  are  very  fond  of  your  husband — but 
you  won't  be  very  fond  of  anybody  but  me,  will  you?" 
She  stopped  again,  crossed  my  hands  on  my  lap,  and  laid 
her  face  on  them.  "  Have  you  been  writing  many  letters, 
and  receiving  many  letters,  lately?"  she  asked,  in  low, 
suddenly  altered  tones.  1  understood  what  the  question 
meant;  but  I  thought  it  my  duty  not  to  encourage  her  by 
meeting  her  half-way.  "  Have  you  heard  from  him?"  she 
went  on,  coaxing  me  to  forgive  the  more  direct  appeal  on 
which  she  now  ventured,  by  kissing  my  hands,  upon  which 
her  face  still  rested.  "  Is  he  well  and  happy,  getting  on 
in  his  profession?  Has  he  recovered  himself — and  torgot- 
ten  me  f  * 

She  should  not  have  asked  those  questions.  She  should 
have  remembered  her  own  resolution,  on  the  morning 
when  Sir  Pereival  held  her  to  her  marriage  engagement, 


206  THE    WOTHAK    IN    WHITE. 

aud  when  she  resigned  the  book  of  Hartright's  drawingfa 
into  my  hands  forever.  But,  ah,  me!  where  is  the  fault- 
less human  creature  wiio  can  persevere  in  a  good  resolu- 
tion without  sometimes  failing  aud  falling  back?  Where  is 
the  woman  who  bas  ever  really  torn  from  her  heart  the 
image  that  has  been  once  fixed  in  it  by  a  true  love?  Books 
tell  us  that  such  unearthly  creatures  have  existed;  but 
;vhat  does  our  own  experience  say  in  answer  to  books? 

1  made  no  attempt  to  remonstrate  with  her,  perhaps  be- 
cause 1  sincerely  appreciated  the  fearless  candor  which  let 
me  see  what  other  women  in  her  position  might  have  had 
reasons  for  concealing  even  from  their  dearest  friends — 
perhaps  because  1  felt,  in  my  own  heart  and  conscience, 
tbat,  in  her  place,  I  should  have  asked  the  same  questions 
and  had  the  same  thoughts.  All  1  could  honestly  do  was 
to  reply  that  1  had  not  written  to  him  or  heard  from  him 
lately,  and  then  to  turn  the  conversation  to  less  dangerous 
topics. 

There  has  been  much  to  sadden  me  in  our  interview — my 
first  confidential  interview  with  her  since  her  return.  The 
change  which  her  marriage  has  produced  in  our  relations 
toward  each  other,  by  placing  a  forbidden  subject  between 
us,  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives,  the  melancholy  convic- 
tion of  the  dearth  of  all  warmth  of  feeling,  of  ail  close  sym- 
pathy, between  her  husband  and  herself,  which  her  own 
unwilling  words  now  force  on  my  mind;  the  distressing  dis- 
covery that  the  influence  of  that  ill-fated  attachment  still 
remains  (no  matter  how  innocently,  how  harmlessly)  rooted 
as  deeply  as  ever  in  her  heart— all  these  are  disclosures  to 
sadden  any  woman  who  loves  her  as  dearly,  and  feels  for 
iier  as  acutely,  as  I  do. 

There  is  only  one  consolation  to  set  against  them — a  con- 
solation that  ought  to  comfort  me,  aud  that  does  comfort 
me.  All  the  graces  and  gentlenesses  of  her  character;  all 
the  frank  affection  of  her  nature;  all  the  sweet,  simple, 
womanly  charms  which  used  to  make  her  the  darling  and 
delight  of  every  one  who  approached  her,  have  come  back 
to  me  with  herself.  Of  my  other  impressions  I  am  some- 
times a  little  inclined  to  doubt.  Of  this  last,  best,  hap- 
piest of  all  impressions,  I  grow  more  and  more  certain  every 
hour  in  the  day. 

Let  me  turn  now  from  her  to  her  traveling  companions. 
Htr  husband  must  engage  my  attention  first.     What  have 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  207 

I  observed  in  Sir  Percival,  since  his  return,  to  improve  my 
opinion  of  him? 

"  1  can  hardly  say.  Small  vexations  and  anno)'ances 
seem  to  have  beset  him  since  he  came  back;  and  no  man, 
under  those  circumstances,  is  ever  presented  at  his  best. 
He  looks,  as  I  think,  thinner  than  he  was  when  he  left 
England.  His  wearisome  cough  and  his  comfortless  rest- 
lessness have  certainly  increased.  His  manner — at  least 
his  manner  toward  me — is  much  more  abrupt  than  it  used 
to  be.  He  greeted  me  on  the  evening  of  his  return,  with 
little  or  nothing  of  the  ceremony  and  civility  of  former 
times — no  polite  speeches  of  welcome — no  appearance  of 
extraordinary  gratification  at  seeing  me — nothing  but  a  short 
shake  of  the  hand,  and  a  sharp  "  How-d'ye-do,  Miss  Hal- 
combe — glad  to  see  you  again."  He  seemed  to  accept  me 
as  one  of  the  necessary  fixtures  of  Blackwater  Park;  to  be 
satisfied  at  finding  me  established  in  my  proper  place;  and 
then  to  pass  me  over  altogether. 

Most  men  show  something  of  their  disposition  in  their 
own  houses  which  they  have  concealed  elsewhere,  and  Sir 
Percival  has  already  displayed  a  mania  for  order  and  regu- 
larity which  is  quite  a  new  revelation  of  him,  so  far  as  my 
previous  knowledge  of  his  character  is  concerned.  If  I 
take  a  book  from  the  library  and  leave  it  on  the  table,  he 
follows  me  and  puts  it  back  again.  If  I  rise  from  a  chair 
and  let  it  remain  where  I  have  been  sitting,  he  carefully 
restores  it  to  its  proper  place  against  the  wall.  He  picks 
up  stray  flower-blossoms  from  the  carpet,  and  mutters  to 
nimself  as  discontentedly  as  if  they  were  hot  cinders  burn- 
ing holes  in  it;  and  he  storms  at  the  servants  if  there  is  a 
crease  in  the  table-cloth,  or  a  knife  missing  from  its  place 
at  the  dinner-table,  as  fiercely  as  if  they  had  personally  in- 
sulted him. 

I  have  already  referred  to  the  small  annoyances  which 
appear  to  have  troubled  him  since  his  return.  Much  of 
the  alteration  for  the  worse  which  I  have  noticed  in  him 
may  be  due  to  these.  1  try  to  persuade  myself  that  it  is 
so,  because  I  am  anxious  not  to  be  disheartened  already 
about  the  future.  It  is  certainly  trying  to  any  man's 
temper  to  be  met  by  a  vexation  the  moment  he  sets  foot 
in  his  own  house  again,  after  a  long  absence;  and  this  an- 
noying circumstance  did  really  happen  to  Sir  Percival  ia 
juy  presence. 


208  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

On  the  evening  of  their  arrival,  the  housekeeper  followed 
me  into  the  hall  to  receive  her  master  and  mistress  and 
their  guests.  The  instant  he  saw  her,  Sir  Percival  asked 
if  any  one  had  called  lately.  The  housekeeper  mentioned 
to  him,  in  reply,  what  she  had  previously  mentioned  to  me, 
the  visit  of  the  strange  gentleman  to  make  inquiries  about 
the  time  of  her  master's  return.  He  asked  immediately 
for  the  gentleman's  name.  No  name  had  been  left.  The 
gentleman's  business?  No  business  had  been  mentioned. 
What  was  the  gentleman  like?  The  housekeeper  tried  to 
describe  him,  but  failed  to  distinguish  the  nameless  visitor 
by  any  personal  peculiarity  which  her  master  could  recog- 
nize. Sir  Percival  frowned,  stamped  angrily  on  the  floor, 
and  walked  on  into  the  house,  taking  no  notice  of  anybody. 
Why  he  should  have  been  so  discomposed  by  a  trifle  1  can 
not  say,  but  he  was  seriously  discomposed,  beyond  all 
doubt. 

Upon  the  whole,  it  will  be  best,  perhaps,  if  I  abstain 
from  forming  a  decisive  opinion  of  his  manners,  language, 
and  conduct  in  his  own  house,  until  time  has  enabled  him 
to  shake  off  the  anxieties,  whatever  they  may  be,  which 
now  evidently  trouble  his  mind  in  secret.  1  will  turn  over 
to  a  new  page;  and  my  pen  shall  let  Laura's  husband  alone 
for  the  present. 

The  two  guests — the  Count  and  Countess  Fosco — come 
next  in  my  catalogue.  1  will  dispose  of  the  Countess  first, 
so  as  to  have  done  with  tiie  woman  as  soon  as  possible. 

Laura  was  certainly  not  chargeable  with  any  exaggeration 
in  writing  me  word  that  1  should  hardly  recognize  her 
aunt  again,  when  we  met.  Never  before  have  I  beheld 
such  a  change  produced  in  a  woman  by  her  marriage  as 
has  been  produced  in  Mme.  Fosco. 

As  Eleanor  Fairlie  (aged  seven-and -thirty)  she  was  always 
talking  pntsntious  nonsense,  and  always  worrying  the  un- 
fortunate men  with  every  small  exaction  whicli  a  vain  and 
foolish  woman  can  impose  on  long-suffering  male  human- 
itv.  As  Mme.  Fosco  (aged  three-and-forty),  she  sits  for 
hours  together  without  saying  a  word,  frozen  up  in  the 
strangest  manner  in  herself.  The  hideously  ridiculous  love- 
locks which  used  to  hang  on  either  side  of  her  face  are  now 
replaced  by  stiff  little  rows  of  very  short  curls,  of  the  sort 
that  one  sees  in  old-fashioned  wigs.  A  plain  matronly  cap 
covers  her  head,  and  makes  her  look,  for  the  first  time  in 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  209 

her  life,  since  1  remember  her,  like  a  decent  woman.  No- 
body (putting  her  husband  out  of  the  question,  of  course) 
now  sees  in  her,  what  everybody  saw  once — 1  mean  ihe 
structure  of  the  female  skeleton,  in  the  upper  regions  of 
the  collar-bones  and  the  shoulder-blades.  Clad  in  quiet 
black  or  gray  gowns,  made  high  round  the  throat — dresses 
that  she  would  have  laughed  at,  or  screamed  at,  as  the 
whim  of  the  moment  inclined  her,  in  her  maiden  days — 
she  sits  speechless  in  corners;  her  dry  white  iiands  (so  dry 
that  the  pores  of  her  skin  look  chalky)  incessantly  engagsd, 
either  in  monotonous  embroidery  work,  or  in  roUuig  up 
endless  little  cigarettes  for  the  Count's  own  particular 
smoking.  On  the  few  occasions  when  her  cold  blue  eyes 
are  olf  her  work  they  are  geuerall}'  turned  on  her  husband, 
wiih  the  look  of  mute,  submissive  inquiry  which  we  are 
all  familiar  with  in  the  eyes  of  a  faithful  dog.  The  only 
approach  to  an  inward  thaw  which  I  have  yet  detected 
under  her  outer  covering  of  icy  constraint  has  betrayed 
itself,  once  or  twice,  in  the  form  of  a  suppressed  tigerish 
jealousy  of  any  woman  in  the  house  (the  maids  included)  to 
whom  the  Count  speaks,  or  on  whom  he  looks  with  any- 
thing approachmg  to  special  interest  or  attention.  Except 
in  this  one  particular,  she  is  always,  morning,  noon,  and 
uight,  in-doors  and  out,  fair  weather  or  foul,  as  cold  as  a 
statue,  and  as  impenetrable  as  the  stone  out  of  which  it  is 
cut.  For  the  common  purposes  of  society  the  extraordinary 
change  thus  produced  in  her  is,  beyond  al!  doubt,  a  change 
for  the  better,  seeing  that  it  has  transformed  her  into  a 
civil,  silent,  unobtrusive  woman,  who  is  never  in  the  way. 
How  far  she  is  really  reformed  or  deteriorated  in  her  secret 
self,  is  another  question.  I  have  once  or  twice  seen  sud- 
den changes  of  expression  on  her  pinched  lips,  and  heard 
sudden  inflections  of  tone  in  her  calm  voice,  which  have 
led  me  to  suspect  that  her  present  state  of  suppression 
may  have  sealed  up  something  dangerous  in  her  nature, 
which  used  to  evaporate  harmlessly  in  the  freedom  of  her 
former  life.  It  is  quite  possible  that  I  may  be  altogether 
wrong  in  this  idea.  My  own  impression,  however,  is,  that 
I  am  right.     Time  will  show. 

And  the  magician  who  has  wrought  this  wonderful  trans- 
formation— the  foreign  husband  who  has  tamed  this  once 
wayward  English  woman  till  her  own  relations  hardly  know 
her  again — the  Count  himself?     What  of  the  Count? 


310  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHrTE. 

This,  ia  two  words:  He  looks  like  a  man  who  could  tame 
anything.  If  he  mariied  a  tigress,  instead  of  u  woman, 
he  would  have  tamed  the  tigress.  If  he  had  married  me, 
I  should  have  made  his  cigarettes  as  his  wife  does— I 
should  have  held  my  tongue  when  he  looked  at  me,  as  she 
holds  hers. 

I  am  almost  afraid  to  confess  it,  even  to  these  secret 
pages.  The  man  has  interested  me,  has  attracted  me,  has 
forced  me  to  like  him.  In  two  short  days  he  has  made  his 
way  straight  into  my  favorable  estimation — and  how  he  has 
worked  the  miracle  is  more  than  1  can  tell. 

It  absolutely  startles  me,  now  he  is  in  my  mind,  to  find 
hoiv  plainly  I  see  him! — how  much  more  plainly  than  I  see 
Sir  Percival,  or  Mr.  Fairlie,  or  Walter  Hartright,  or  any 
other  absent  person  of  whimi  I  think,  with  the  one  ex- 
ception of  Laura  herself!  I  can  hear  his  voice,  as  if  he  was 
speaking  at  this  moment.  I  know  what  his  conversation 
was  yesterday,  as  well  as  if  1  was  hearing  it  now.  How 
am  I  to  describe  him?  There  are  peculiarities  in  his  per- 
sonal appearance,  his  habits,  and  his  amusements,  which  1 
should  blame  in  the  boldest  terms,  or  ridicule  in  the  most 
merciless  manner,  if  I  had  seen  them  in  another  man 
What  is  it  that  makes  me  unable  to  blame  them,  or  to  rid- 
icule them  in  liim  9 

For  example,  he  is  immensely  fat.  Before  this  time,  1 
have  always  especially  disliked  corpulent  humanity.  I 
have  always  maintained  that  the  popular  notion  of  con- 
necting excessive  grossness  of  size  and  excessive  good -humor 
as  inseparable  allies  was  equivalent  to  declaring,  either 
that  no  people  but  amiable  people  ever  get  fat,  or  that  the 
accidental  addition  of  so  many  pounds  of  flesh  has  a 
directly  favorable  influence  over  the  disposition  of  the  per- 
son on  whose  body  they  accumulate.  I  have  invariably 
combatted  both  these  absurd  assertions  by  quoting  examples 
of  fat  people  who  were  as  mean,  vicious,  and  cruel,  as  the 
leanest  and  worst  of  their  neighbors.  I  have  asked  whether 
Henry  the  Eighth  was  an  amiable  character?  whether  Pope 
Alexander  the  Sixth  was  a  good  man?  Whether  Mr.  Mur- 
derer and  Mrs.  Miu'deressManiiing  were  not  both  unusually 
stout  people?  Whether  hired  nurses,  proverbially  as  cruel 
a  set  of  women  as  are  to  be  found  in  all  England,  were 
not,  for  the  most  part,  also  as  fat  a  set  of  women  as  are  to 
be  found  in  all  England? — and  so  on,  through  dozens  oi 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  SH 

other  examples,  moderu  and  ancient,  native  and  foreign, 
high  and  low.  Holding  these  strong  opinions  on  the  sub- 
ject wilh  might  and  main,  as  I  do  at  this  moment,  here, 
nevertheless,  is  Count  Fosco,  as  fat  as  Henry  the  Eighth 
himself,  established  in  my  favor  at  one  day's  notice,  with- 
out let  or  hinderance  from  his  own  odious  corpulence.  Mar- 
velous indeed! 

Is  it  his  face  that  has  recommended  him? 

It  may  be  his  face.  He  is  a  most  remarkable  likeness, 
on  a  large  scale,  of  the  Great  Napoleon.  His  features 
have  Napoleon's  magnificent  regularity;  his  expres- 
sion recalls  the  grandly  calm,  immovable  power  of  the 
Great  Soldier's  face.  This  striking  resemblance  certainly 
impressed  me,  to  begin  with;  but  there  is  something  in  him 
besides  the  resemblance,  which  has  inipressed  me  more.  I 
think  the  influence  I  am  now  trying  to  find,  is  in  hiis  eyes. 
They  are  the  most  unfathomable  gray  eyes  1  ever  saw;  and 
they  have  at  times  a  cold,  clear,  beautiful,  irresistible  glit- 
ter in  them,  which  forces  me  to  look  at  him,  and  yet  causes 
me  sensations,  when  I  do  look,  which  I  would  rather  not 
feel.  Other  parts  of  his  face  and  head  have  their  strange 
peculiarities.  His  complexion,  for  instance,  has  a  singu- 
lar sallow-fairness,  so  much  at  variance  with  the  dark- 
brown  color  of  his  hair  that  I  suspect  the  hair  of  being  a 
wig;  and  his  face,  closely  shaven  all  over,  is  smoother  and. 
freer  from  all  marks  and  wrinkles  than  mine,  though  (ac- 
cording to  Sir  Percival's  account  of  him)  he  is  close  on  sixty 
years  of  age.  But  these  are  not  the  prominent  personal 
characteristics  which  distinguish  him,  to  my  mind,  from 
all  the  other  men  I  have  ever  seen.  The  marked  peculi- 
arity which  singles  him  out  from  the  rank  and  file  of  hu- 
manity, lies  entirely,  as  far  so  I  can  tell  at  present,  in  the 
extraordinary  expression  and  extraordinary  power  of  his 
syes. 

His  manner,  and  his  command  of  our  language,  may  also 
have  assisted  him,  in  some  degree,  to  establish  himself  in 
my  good  opinion.  He  has  that  quiet  deference,  that  look 
of  pleased,  attentive  interest,  in  listening  to  a  woman,  and 
that  secret  gentleness  in  his  voice,  in  speaking  to  a  woman, 
which,  say  what  we  may,  we  can  none  of  us  resist.  Here, 
too,  his  unusual  command  of  the  English  language  neces- 
sarily helps  him.  I  had  often  heard  of  the  extraordinary 
aptitude  which  many  Italians  show  in  mastering  our  strong, 


312  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

hard.  Northern  speech;  but,  until  1  saw  Count  Fosco,  1 
had  never  supposed  it  possible  that  any  foreigner  could 
have  spoken  English  as  he  speaks  it.  There  are  times 
when  it  is  almost  impossible  to  detect,  by  his  accent,  that 
he  is  not  a  countryman  of  our  own;  and,  as  for  fluency, 
there  are  very  few  born  Englishman  who  can  talk  with  as 
few  stoppages  and  repetitions  as  the  Count.  He  may  con- 
struct his  sentences,  more  or  less,  ni  the  foreign  way^  but 
I  have  never  yet  heard  him  use  a  wrong  expression^,  or  hes- 
itate for  a  moment  in  liis  choice  of  words. 

All  the  smallest  characteristics  of  this  strange  man  have 
something  strikingiy  original  and  pei-plexiugly  contradic- 
tory in  them.  Fat  as  he  is,  and  old  as  he  is,  his  move- 
ments are  astonishingly  light  and  easy.  He  is -as  noiseless 
in  a  room  as  any  of  us  women;;  and,  more  than  that,  with 
all  his  look  of  unmistakable  mental  firmness  and  power, 
he  is  as  nervously  sensitive  as  the  weakest  of  us.  He 
starts  at  chance  noises  as  inveterately  as  Laura  herself.  He 
winced  and  shuddered  yesterday,  when  Sir  Percival  beat 
one  of  the  spaniels,  so  that  I  felt  ashamed  of  my  own  want 
of  tenderness  and  sensibility,  by  comparison  with  the 
Count. 

The  relation  of  this  last  incident  reminds  me  of  one  of 
his  most  curious  peculiarities,  which  I  have  not  yet  men- 
tioned— his  extraordinary  fondness  for  pet  animals. 

Some  of  these  he  has  left  on  the  Continent,  but  he  has 
brought  with  him  to  this  house  a  cockatoo,  two  canary 
bn-ds,  and  a  whole  family  of  white  mice.  He  attends  to 
all  the  necessities  of  these  strange  favorites  himself,  and 
he  has  taught  the  creatures  to  be  surprisingly  fond  of  him 
and  familiar  with  him.  The  cockatoo,  a  most  vicious  and 
treacherous  bird  toward  every  one  else,  absolutely  seems 
to  love  him.  When  he  lets  it  out  of  its  cage,  it  hops  on  to 
his  Knee,  and  claws  its  way  up  his  great  big  body,  and 
rubs  its  top-knot  against  his  sallow  double  chin  in  the  most 
caressing  manner  imaginable.  He  has  only  to  set  the 
doors  of  the  canaries'  cage  open,  and  to  call  them;  and 
the  pretty  little  cleverly  trained  creatures  perch  fearlessly 
on  his  hand,  mount  his  fat  outstretched  fingers  one  by 
one,  when  he  tells  them  to  "  go  upstairs,"  and  sing  to- 
gether as  if  they  would  burst  tneir  throats  with  delight 
when  they  get  to  the  top  finger.  His  white  mice  live 
in  a  little  pagoda  of  gayly  painted  wire- work,  designed 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  213 

and  maile  by  himself.  They  are  almost  as  tame  as  the 
(jaiiarii's,  and  they  are  perpetually  let  out,  like  the  canaries. 
They  crawl  all  over  him,  popping  in  and  out  of  his  waist- 
coat, and  sitting  in  couples,  white  as  snow,  on  his  capa- 
cious shoulders.  He  seems  to  be  even  fonder  of  his  mice 
than  of  his  other  pets,  smiles  at  them,  and  kisses  them, 
and  calls  ihem  by  all  sorts  of  endearing  names.  If  it  be 
possible  to  suppose  an  Englishman  with  any  taste  for  such 
ehildish  interests  and  amusements  as  these,  that  English- 
man would  certainly  feel  rather  ashamed  of  them,  and 
would  be  anxious  to  apologize  for  them,  in  the  company 
of  grown-up  people.  But  the  Count  apparently,  sees 
nothing  ridiculous  in  the  amazing  contrast  between  his  co- 
lossal self  and  his  frail  little  pets.  He  would  blandly  kiss 
his  white  mice,  and  twitter  to  his  canary  birds,  amidst  an 
assembly  of  English  fox-hunters,  and  would  only  pity  them 
as  barbarians  when  they  were  all  laughing  their  loudest  at 
him. 

It  seems  hardly  credible  while  I  am  writing  it  down,  but 
it  is  certainly  true,  that  this  same  man,  who  has  all  the 
fondness  of  an  old  maid  for  his  cockatoo,  and  all  the  small 
dexterities  of  an  organ-boy  in  managing  his  white  mice, 
can  talk,  when  anything  happens  to  rouse  him,  with  a  dar- 
ing independence  of  thought,  a  knowledge  of  books  in 
every  language,  and  an  experience  of  society  in  half  the 
capitals  of  Europe,  which  would  make  him  the  prominent 
personage  of  any  assembly  in  the  civilized  world.  This 
trainer  of  canary  birds,  this  architect  of  a  pagoda  for  white 
mice,  is  (as  Sir  Percival  himself  has  told  me)  one  of  the 
first  experimental  chemists  living,  and  has  discovered, 
among  other  wonderful  inventions,  a  means  of  petrifying 
the  body  after  death,  so  as  to  preserve  it,  as  hard  as  mar- 
ble, to  the  end  of  time.  This  fat,  indolent,  elderly  man> 
whose  nerves  are  so  finely  strung  that  he  starts  at 
-chance  noises,  and  winces  when  he  sees  a  house-spaniel  get 
a  whipping,  went  into  the  stable-yard  the  morning  after 
his  arrival,  and  put  his  hand  on  the  head  of  a  chained 
blood-hound — a  beast  so  savage  that  the  very  groom  who 
f  els  him  keeps  out  of  his  reach.  His  wife  and  I  were 
present,  and  I  shall  not  forget  the  scene  that  followed, 
short;  as  it  was. 

"  Mind  that  dog.  sir,"  said  the  groom;  "  he  flies  at  every- 
body 1"     "  He  does  that,  my  tvi^vid/'  replied  the  Countji 


214  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

quietly,  "  because  everybody  is  Jifraid  of  him.  Let  us  see 
if  he  fiies  at  me."  And  he  laid  his  plump,  ye  How- white 
fingers,  on  which  the  canary  birds  had  beeu  perching  ten 
minutes  before,  upon  the  formidable  brute's  head,  and 
looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  "  You  big  dogs  are  all 
cowards,"  he  said,  addressing  the  animal  contemptu  Misly, 
with  his  face  and  the  dog's  within  an  inch  of  each  other, 
'*  You  would  kill  a  poor  cat,  you  infernal  coward.  You 
■Nonld  fly  at  a  starving  beggar,  you  infernal  coward.  Any- 
thing that  you  can  surprise  unawares — anything  that  is 
afraid  of  your  big  body,  and  your  wicked  white  teeth,  and 
your  slobbering,  blood-thirsty  mouth,  is  the  thing  you  like 
to  fly  at.  You  could  throttle  me  at  this  moment,  you 
mean,  miserable  bully;  and  you  daren't  so  much  as  look 
me  in  the  face,  because  I'm  not  afiaid  of  you.  Will  you 
think  better  of  it,  and  try  your  teeth  in  my  fat  neck?  Bah! 
not  you!"  He  turned  away,  laughing  at  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  men  in  the  yard ;  and  the  dog  crept  back  meekly 
to  his  kennel.  "Ah!  my  nice  waistcoat!"  he  said,  pa- 
thetically. "  1  am  sorry  I  came  here.  Some  of  that  brute's 
slobber  has  got  on  my  pretty  clean  waistcoat."  Those 
words  express  another  of  his  iucomprehejisible  oddities. 
He  is  as  fond  of  fine  clothes  as  the  veriest  fool  in  ex- 
istence; and  has  appeared  in  four  magnificent  waistcoats 
already — all  of  light,  garish  colors,  and  all  immnipely 
large,  even  for  him — in  the  two  days  of  his  residence  at 
Biackwater  Park. 

His  tact  and  cleverness  in  small  things  are  quite  as  not- 
iceable as  the  singular  inconsistencies  in  his  character,  and 
the  childish  triviality  of  his  ordinary  tastes  and  pursuits. 

I  can  see  already  that  he  means  to  live  on  excellent  terms 
with  all  of  us  during  the  period  of  his  sojourn  in  this 
place.  He  has  evidently  discovered  that  Laura  secretly 
dislikes  him  (she  confessed  as  much  to  me,  when  1  pressed 
her  on  the  subject) — but  he  has  also  found  out  that  she  is 
extravagantly  fond  of  flowers.  Whenever  she  wiiiiis  a 
nosegay,  he  has  got  one  to  give  her,  gathered  and  arranged 
by  himself;  and,  greatly  to  my  amusement,  he  is  always 
cunningly  provided  with  a  duplicate,  composed  of  exactly 
the  same  flowers,  grouped  in  exactly  the  same  way,  to  ap- 
pease his  icily  jealous  wife,  before  she  can  so  much  as  think 
herself  aggrieved.  His  management  of  the  countess  (in 
public)  is  a  sight  to  see.     He  bows  to  her;  he  habitually 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  215 

addresses  her  as  "  my  angel;"  he  carries  his  canaries  to 
pay  her  little  visits  on  his  fingei^s,  and  to  sing  to  her;  he 
kisses  her  hand  when  she  gives  him  his  cigarettes;  he 
presents  her  with  sugar-plums  in  return,  which  ha  puts 
into  her  mouth  playfully,  from  a  box  in  his  pocket.  The 
rod  of  iron  with  which  he  rules  her  never  appears  in  com- 
pany— it  is  a  private  rod,  and  is  always  kept  upstairs. 

His  method  of  recommending  himself  to  me  is  entirely 
different.  He  flatters  my  vanity  by  talking  to  me  as  seri- 
ously and  sensibly  as  if  I  was  a  man.  Yes!  1  can  find  him 
out  when  I  am  away  from  him;  I  know  he  flatters  my 
vanity,  when  I  think  of  him  up  here,  in  my  own  room — 
and  yet,  when  I  go  down-stairs,  and  get  into  his  company 
again,  he  will  blind  me  again,  and  I  shall  be  flattered 
again,  just  as  if  1  had  never  found  him  out  at  all!  He 
can  manage  me  as  he  manages  his  wife  and  Laura,  as  he 
managed  the  blood-hound  in  the  stable-yard,  as  he  man- 
ages Sir  Percival  himself,  every  hour  in  the  day.  "  My 
good  Percival!  how  1  like  your  rough  English  humor!" — 
"My  good  Percival!  how  1  enjoy  your  solid  English 
sense!"  He  puts  the  rudest  remarks  Sir  Percival  can 
make  on  his  effeminate  tastes  and  amusements  quietly  away 
from  him  in  that  manner — always  calling  the  baronet  by 
his  Christian  name;  smiling  at  him  with  the  calmest  supe- 
riority; patting  him  on  the  shoulder;  and  bearing  with  him 
benignantly,  as  a  good-humored  father  bears  with  a  way- 
ward son. 

The  interest  which  I  really  can  not  help  feeling  in  this 
strangely  original  man  has  led  me  to  question  Sir  Percival 
about  his  past  life. 

Sir  Percival  either  knows  little,  or  will  tell  me  little, 
about  it.  He  and  the  Count  first  met  many  years  ago,  at 
Rome,  under  the  dangerous  circumstances  to  which  I  have 
alluded  elsewhere.  Since  that  time  they  have  been  per- 
petually together  in  London,  in  Paris,  and  in  Vienna — but 
never  in  Italy  again;  the  Count  having,  oddly  enough,  not 
crossed  the  frontiers  of  his  native  country  for  years  past. 
Perhaps  he  has  been  made  the  victim  of  some  political  per- 
secution? At  all  events,  he  seems  to  be  patriotically  anx- 
ious not  to  lose  sight  of  any  of  his  own  countryman  who 
may  happen  to  be  in  England.  On  the  evening  of  his  ar- 
rival, he  asked  how  far  we  were  from  the  nearest  town,  and 
whether  we  knew  of  any  Italian  gentlemen  who  might  hap- 


216  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

pen  to  be  settled  there.  He  is  certainly  in  correspondence 
wilh  yjeople  on  the  Continent,  for  his  letters  have  all  sorts 
of  odd  stamps  on  them;  and  1  saw  one  for  him  this  morning, 
waiting  in  his  place  at  the  breakfast-table,  with  a  huge 
otficiai-looking  seal  on  it.  Perhaps  he  is  in  correspond- 
ence with  his  Government?  And  yet  that  is  hardly  to  be 
reconciled,  either,  with  my  other  idea  that  he  may  be  a 
political  exile. 

How  much  I  seem  to  have  written  about  Count  Fosco! 
And  what  does  it  all  amohnt  to? — as  poor,  dear  Mr.  Gil- 
more  would  ask,  in  his  impenetrable,  business-like  waf. 
I  can  only  repeat  that  I  do  assuredly  feel,  even  on  this 
short  acquaintance,  a  strange,  half-willing,  half-unwilling 
liking  for  the  Count.  He  seems  to  have  established  over 
me  the  same  sort  of  ascendency  which  he  has  evidently 
gained  over  Sir  Percival.  Free,  and  even  rude,  as  he  may 
occasionally  be  in  nis  manner  toward  his  fat  friend.  Sir 
Percival  is  nevertheless  afraid,  as  I  can  plainly  see,  of  giv- 
ing any  serious  offense  to  the  Count.  1  wonder  whether 
I  am  afraid,  too?  1  certainly  never  saw  a  man,  in  all  my 
experience,  whom  I  should  be  so  sorry  to  have  for  an  ene- 
my. Is  this  because  I  like  him,  or  because  I  am  afraid  of 
him?  Chi  m — as  Count  Fosco  might  say  in  his  own  lan- 
guage.    Who  knows? 

June  IGth. — Something  to  chronicle,  to-day,  besides  my 
own  ideas  and  impressions.  A  visitor  has  arrived — quite 
unknown  to  Laura  and  to  me,  and  apparently  quite  unex- 
pected by  Sir  Percival. 

We  were  all  at  lunch,  in  the  room  with  the  new  French 
windows  that  open  into  the  veranda;  and  the  Count 
(who  devours  pastry  as  1  have  never  yet  seen  it  devoured 
by  any  human  beings  but  girls  at  boarding-school)  had 
just  amused  us  by  asking  gravely  for  his  fourth  tart — 
when  the  servant  entered,  to  announce  the  visitor. 

"  Mr.  Merriman  has  just  come.  Sir  Percival,  and  wishes 
to  see  you  immediately." 

Sir  Percival  started,  and  looked  at  the  man,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  angry  alarm. 

"  Mr.  Merriman?"  he  repeated,  as  if  he  thought  his  own 
ears  must  have  deceived  him. 

"  Yes,  Sir  Percival:  Mr.  Merriman,  from  London.*' 

*'  Where  is  he?" 


THK    AVOJIAN    IN    WHITE.  217 

"  la  the  library,  Sir  Percival." 

He  left  the  table  the  instant  the  last  answer  was  given, 
and  hurried  out  of  the  room,  without  saying  a  word  to  any 
of  us. 

"Who  is  Mr.  Merriman?"  asked  Laura,  appealing  to 
me. 

"  I  have  not  the  least  idea,''  was  all  that  I  could  say  in 
reply. 

The  Count  had  finished  his  fourth  tart,  and  had  gone  to 
a  side-table  to  look  after  his  vicious  cockatoo.  He  turned 
round  to  us,  with  the  bird  perched  on  his  shoulder. 

"Mr.  Merriman  is  Sir  Percival's  solicitor/'  he  said, 
quietly. 

Sir  Percival's  solicitor.  It  was  a  perfectly  straightfor- 
ward answer  to  Laura's  question;  and  yet,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, it  was  Tiot  satisfactory.  If  Mr.  Merriman  had 
been  specially  sent  for  by  his  client,  there  would  have  been 
nothing  very  wonderful  in  his  leaving  town  to  obey  the 
summons.  But  when  a  lawyer  travels  from  London  to 
Hampshire  without  being  sent  for,  and  when  his  arrival  at 
a  gentleman's  house  seriously  startles  the  gentleman  him-* 
self,  it  may  be  safely  taken  for  granted  that  the  legal  visitor 
is  the  bearer  of  some  very  important  and  very  unexpected 
news — news  which  may  be  either  very  good  or  very  bad, 
but  which  can  not,  in  either  case,  be  of  the  common,  every- 
day kind. 

Laura  and  I  sat  silent  at  the  table,  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  or  more,  wondering  uneasily  what  had  happened, 
and  waiting  for  the  chance  of  Sir  Percival's  speedy  return. 
There  were  no  signs  of  his  return;  and  we  rose  to  leave 
the  room. 

The  Count,  attentive  as  usual,  advanced  from  the  corner 
in  which  he  had  been  feeding  his  cockatoo,  with  the  bird 
still  perched  on  his  shoulder,  and  opened  the  door  for  us. 
Laura  and  Mme.  Fosco  went  out  first.  Just  as  I  was  on 
the  point  of  following  them,  he  made  a  sign  with  his  hand, 
and  spoke  to  me  before  I  passed  him,  in  the  oddest  man- 
ner. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  quietly,  answering  the  unexpressed  idea 
at  that  moment  in  my  mind,  as  if  I  had  plainly  confided 
to  him  in  so  many  words — "  yes.  Miss  Halcombe,  some- 
thing has  happened." 

1  was  on  the  point  of  answering,  "I  never  said  so. " 


318  THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

But  the  vicious  cockatoo  ruffled  his  clipped  wings,  and  gave 
a  screech  that  set  all  my  nerves  on  edge  in  an  instant,  and 
made  me  only  too  glad  to  get  out  of  the  room. 

I  joined  Laura  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The  thought  in 
her  mind  was  the  same  as  the  thought  in  mine,  which 
Count  Fosco  had  surprised —  and  when  she  spoke,  her  words 
were  almost  the  echo  of  his.  She,  too,  said  to  me,  secretly,- 
that  she  was  afraid  something  had  happened. 


111. 

J7ine  16fh. — 1  have  a  few  lines  more  to  add  to  tills  day's 
entry  before  I  go  to  bed  to-night. 

About  two  hours  after  Sir  Percival  rose  from  the  lunch- 
eon-table to  receive  his  solicitor,  Mr.  Merriman,  in  the  libra- 
ry, I  left  my  room,  alone,  to  take  a  walk  in  the  plantations. 
Just  as  I  was  at  the  end  of  the  landing,  the  library  door 
opened,  and  the  two  gentlemen  came  out.  Thinking  it 
best  not  to  disturb  them  by  appearing  on  the  stairs,  I  re- 
solved to  defer  going  down  till  they  had  crossed  the  hall. 
Although  they  spoke  to  each  other  in  guarded  tones,  their 
words  were  pronounced  with  sufficient  distinctness  of  ut- 
terance to  reach  my  ears. 

"  Make  your  mind  easy.  Sir  Percival,''  I  heard  the  law- 
yer say.     "  It  all  rests  with  Lady  Glyde." 

I  had  turned  to  go  back  to  my  own  room,  for  a  minute 
or  two;  but  the  sound  of  Laura's  name,  on  the  lips  of  a 
stranger,  stopped  me  instantly.  I  dai-e  say  it  was  very 
wrong  and  very  discreditable  to  listen — but  where  is  the 
woman,  in  the  whole  range  of  our  sex,  who  can  regulate 
her  actions  by  the  abstract  principles  of  honor,  when  those 
principles  point  one  way,  and  when  her  affections,  and  the 
interests  which  grow  out  of  them,  point  the  other? 

I  listened;  and,  under  similar  circumstances,  I  would 
listen  again — yes!  with  my  ear  at  the  key-hole,  if  I  could 
not  possibly  manage  it  in  any  other  way. 

"  You  quite  understand.  Sir  Percival?"  the  lawyer  went 
on.  "  Lady  Glyde  is  to  sign  her  name  in  the  presence  of 
a  witness — or  of  two  witnesses,  if  you  wish  to  be  particu- 
larly careful — and  is  then  to  put  her  finger  on  the  seal,  and 
say,  '  1  deliver  this  as  my  act  and  deed.'  If  that  is  done 
in  a  week's  time,  the  arrangement  will  be  perfectly  suC' 
cessful,  and  the  anxiety  will  be  all  over.     If  not — " 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  219 

"  "What  do  you  mean  by  '  if  not?'  "  asked  Sir  Percival, 
augrily.  *'  If  the  thiug  must  be  done,  it  shall  be  done.  1 
promise  you  that,  Merriman. " 

"Just  so,  Sir  Percival — just  so;  but  there  are  two  alter- 
natives ill  all  transactions;  and  we  lawyers  like  to  look  both 
of  them  in  the  face  boldly.  If  through  any  extraordinary 
circumstance  the  arrangement  should  not  be  made,  I  think 
I  may  be  able  to  get  the  parties  to  accept  bills  at  three 
months.  But  how  the  money  is  to  be  raised  when  the 
bills  fall  due—" 

"  D — u  the  bills!  The  money  is  only  to  be  got  in  one 
way;  and  in  the  way,  I  tell  you  again,  it  shall  be  got. 
Take  a  glass  of  wine,  Merriman,  before  you  go." 

"  Much  obliged,  Sir  Percival;  I  have  not  a  moment  to 
lose  if  1  am  to  catch  the  up  train.  You  will  let  me  know 
as  soon  as  the  arrangement  is  complete?  and  you  will  not 
forget  the  caution  1  recommended — " 

"  Of  course  I  won't.  There's  the  dog-cart  at  the  door 
for  you.  My  groom  will  get  you  to  the  station  in  no  time. 
Benjamin,  drive  like  mad!  Jump  in.  If  Mr.  Merriman 
misses  the  train,  you  lose  your  place.  Hold  fast,  Merri- 
man, and  if  you  are  upset,  trust  to  the  devil  to  save  his 
own."  With  that  parting  benediction,  the  baronet  turned 
about,  and  walked  back  to  tlie  library. 

I  had  not  heard  much;  but  the  little  that  had  reached  my 
ears  was  enough  to  make  me  feel  uneas3\  The  "  some- 
thing "  that  "  had  happened  "  was  but  too  plainly  a  seri- 
ous money  embarrassment;  and  Sir  Percival's  relief  from 
it  depended  upon  Laura.  The  prospect  of  seeing  her  in- 
volved in  her  husband's  secret  difficulties  filled  me  with 
dismay,  exaggerated,  no  doubt,  by  my  ignorance  of  busi- 
ness and  my  settled  distrust  of  Sir  Percival.  Instead  of 
going  out,  as  1  proposed,  I  went  back  immediately  to 
Laura's  room  to  tell  her  what  1  had  heard. 

She  received  my  bad  news  so  composedly  as  to  surprise 
me.  She  evidently  knows  more  of  her  husband's  character 
and  her  husband's  embarrassments  than  I  have  suspected 
up  to  this  time. 

"  1  feared  as  much,"  she  said,  "  when  I  heard  of  that 
strange  gentleman  who  called,  and  declined  to  leave  his 
name." 

"  Who  do  you  think  (liegentlemati  was,  then?"  I  asked. 

*'  Some  person  who  hi^  heavy  claims  on  Sir  Percival,'* 


SSO  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

she  anstvered;  "  and  who  has  been  the  cause  of  Mr.  Merri- 
man's  visit  here  to-day." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  those  claims?'* 

"  No;  1  know  no  particulars." 

"  You  will  sign  nothing,  Laura,  without  first  looking  at 
it?'* 

*'  Certainly  not,  Marian.  Whatever  I  can  harmlessly 
and  honestly  do  to  help  him  I  will  do — for  the  sake  of  mak- 
ing your  life  and  mine,  love,  as  easy  and  as  happy  as  possi- 
ble. But  I  will  do  nothing,  ignorantly,  which  we  might, 
one  day,  have  reason  to  feel  ashamed  of.  Let  us  say  no 
more  about  it  now.  You  have  got  your  hat  on — suppose 
we  go  and  dream  away  the  afternoon  in  the  grounds?" 

On  leaving  the  house  we  directed  our  steps  to  the  nearest 
shade. 

As  we  passed  an  open  space  among  the  trees  in  front  of 
the  house,  there  was  Count  Fosco,  slowly  walking  back- 
ward and  forward  on  the  grass,  sunning  himself  in  the  full 
blaze  of  the  hot  June  afternoon.  He  had  a  broad  straw 
hat  on,  with  a  violet-colored  ribbon  round  it.  A  blue 
blouse,  with  profuse  white  fancy-work  over  the  bosom,  cov- 
ered his  prodigious  body,  and  was  girt  about  the  place 
where  his  waist  might  once  have  been,  with  a  broad,  scar- 
let leather  belt.  Nankeen  trousers,  displaying  more  white 
fancy-work  over  the  ankles,  and  purple  morocco  slippers, 
ailorned  his  lower  extremities.  He  was  singing  Figaro's 
famous  song  in  the  "  Barber  of  Seville,"  with  that  crisply 
lUient  vocalization  which  is  never  heard  from  any  other 
than  an  Italian  throat;  accompanying  himself  on  the  con- 
certina, which  he  played  with  ecstatic  throwings-up  of  his 
arras,  and  graceful  twistiugs  and  turnings  of  his  head,  like 
a  fat  St.  Cecilia  masquerading  in  male  attire.  *' Figaro 
qua!  Figaro  la!  Figaro  sii!  Figaro  giu!"  sung  the  Count, 
jauntily  tossing  up  the  concertina  at  arms'-length,  and 
bowing  to  us,  on  one  side  of  the  instrument,  with  the  airy 
grace  and  elegance  of  Figaro  himself  at  twenty  years  of 
age. 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,  Laura,  that  man  knows  some- 
thing of  Sir  Percival's  embarrassments,"  I  said,  as  we  re- 
turned tlie  Count's  salutation  from  a  safe  distance. 

"  What  makes  you  thuik  thai?"  she  asked. 

"  How  should  he  have  known,  otherwise,  ihat  Mr.  Mer- 
dman  was  Sir  Percivul's  solicito"?"  I  reioined.    "  BesideSj 


THE    AA'OMAN     IN     -WHITE.  321 

when  1  followed  you  out  of  the  laneheou-room,  he  told  me, 
without  a  single  word  of  inquiry  on  uiy  pai  t,  that  some- 
thing Imd  happened.  Depeud  iipou  it,  he  knows  more 
than  we  do." 

"  Don't  ask  him  any  questions,  if  he  does.  Don't  take 
him  into  our  confidence!''' 

"  You  seem  to  dislike  him,  Laura,  in  a  very  determined 
manner.     What  has  he  said  or  done  to  justify  you?'' 

"  Nothing,  Marian.  On  tlie  contrary,  he  was  all  kind- 
ness and  attention  on  our  journey  home,  and  he  several 
times  checked  Sir  Percivars  outbreaks  of  temper,  in  the 
most  considerate  manner  toward  me.  Perhaps  I  dislike 
him  because  he  has  so  much  more  power  over  my  husband 
than  1  have.  Perhaps  it  hurts  my  pride  to  be  under  any 
obligations  to  his  interference.  All  I  know  is,  that  I  do 
dislike  him.'' 

The  rest  of  the  day  and  evening  passed  quietly  enough. 
The  Count  and  1  played  at  ches3.  For  the  first  two  games 
he  politely  allowed  me  to  conquer  liim;  and  then,  when  he 
saw  that  I  had  found  him  out,  begged  my  pardon,  and,  at 
the  third  game,  checkmated  me  in  ten  minutes.  Sir  Per- 
cival  never  once  referred,  all  through  the  evening,  to  the 
lawyer's  visit.  But  either  that  event,  or  something  else, 
had  produced  a  singular  alteration  for  the  better  in  him. 
He  was  as  polite  and  agreeable  to  all  of  us  as  he  used  to  be 
in  the  days  of  h.is  probation  at  Limmeridge;  and  he  was  so 
amazingly  attentive  and  kind  to  his  wife  that  even  icy 
Mme.  Fosco  was  roused  into  looking  at  him  with  a  grave 
surprise.  What  does  this  mean?  1  think  1  can  guess;  I 
am  afraid  Laura  can  guess;  and  I  am  suie  Count  Fosco 
knows.  I  caught  Sir  Percival  looking  at  him  fur  approval 
more  than  once  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

Ju7ie  17th. — A  day  of  events.  1  most  fervently  hope  T 
may  not  have  to  add,  a  day  of  disasters  as  uell. 

Sir  Percival  was  as  silent  at  breakfast  as  he  had  been  the 
evening  before,  on  the  subject  of  the  mysterious  "  arrange- 
ment "  (as  the  lawyer  called  it),  v.'hich  is  hanging  over  our 
heads.  An  hour  afterward,  however,  he  suddenly  entered 
the  morning-room,  v/here  his  wife  and  1  were  waiting,  with 
our  hats  on,  for  Mme.  Fosco  to  join  us,  and  inquired  for 
the  Count. 

"  We  expect  to  see  id  in  here  directly,"  1  said. 


223  THE    AYOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

"  The  fact  is/'  Sir  Percival  went  on,  walking  nervously 
about  the  room,  "  I  want  Fosco  and  his  wife  in  the  library, 
for  a  mere  business  I'orniality;  and  1  want  you  tliere,  Laura, 
for  a  minute,  too."  He  stopped,  and  appeared  to  notice, 
for  the  first  time,  tiiat  we  were  in  our  walking  costume. 
"  Have  yon.  just  come  iii?"  he  asked,  "  or  were  you  just 
goitig  out?" 

"  We  were  all  thiuking  of  going  to  the  lake  this  morn- 
ing," said  Lauia.  "  Bat  if  you  have  any  other  arrange- 
ment to  propose — " 

"  No,  no,"  he  answered,  hastily.  "  My  arrangement 
can  wait.  After  lunch  will  do  as  well  for  it  as  after  break- 
fast. All  going  to  the  lake,  eh?  A  good  idea.  Let's 
have  an  idle  morning;  ril'be  one  of  the  party." 

There  was  no  mistaking  his  matnier,  even  if  it  had  been 
possible  to  mistake  the  uncharacteristic  readiness  which  his 
words  expressed  to  submit  his  own  jjlans  and  projects  to 
the  convenience  of  others.  He  was  evidently  relieved  at 
finding  any  excuse  for  delaying  the  business  formality  in 
the  library,  to  which  his  own  words  had  referred.  My 
heart  sunk  within  me  as  I  drew  the  inevitable  inference. 

The  Count  and  his  wife  joined  us  at  that  moment.  The 
lady  had  her  husband's  embroidered  tobacco-joouch,  and  her 
store  of  paper  in  her  hand,  for  the  manufacture  of  the 
eternal  cigarettes.  The  gentleman,  dressed,  as  usual,  in 
his  blouse  and  straw  hat,  carried  the  gay  little  pagoda-cage, 
with  his  darling  white  mice  in  it,  and  smiled  on  them  and 
on  US,  with  a  bland  amiability  whicii  it  was  iujpossible  to 
resist. 

"  With  your  kind  permission,"  said  tbe  Count,  "  1  will 
take  my  small  family  here — my  poor-little-harmless-pretty- 
Mouseys,  out  for  an  airing  along  with  ns.  There  are  dogs 
about  the  house,  and  shall  1  leave  my  forlorn  white  chil- 
dren at  the  mercies  of  the  dogs?     Ah,  never!" 

He  chirruped  paternally  at  his  small  white  children 
through  the  bars  of  the  pngoda;  and  we  all  left  the  house 
for  the  lake. 

In  the  plantation,  Sir  Percival  strayed  away  from  us. 
It  seems  to  be  part  of  his  restless  disposition  always  to 
separate  himself  from  his  com]ianions  on  these  occasions, 
and  always  to  occupy  himself,  when  he  is  alone,  in  cutting 
new  walking-sticks  for  his  own  use.  The  mere  act  of  cut- 
ting and  lopping,  at  hazard,  appears  to  please  him.     He 


THE    WOMAN    IN    AVHITE.  223 

ftas  filled  IliL'  house  with  walking-sticks  of  his  own  making, 
not  one  of  uhiuii  he  ever  takes  up  a  second  time. 
When  they  have  been  ouce  used  liis  interest  in  them  is  all 
exhausted,  and  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  going  on  and 
making  more. 

At  the  old  boat-house  he  joined  us  again.  I  will  put 
down  the  conversation  that  ensued,  when  we  were  all  set- 
tled in  our  places,  exactly  as  it  passed.  It  is  an  important 
conversation,  so  far  as  1  am  concerned,  for  it  has  seriously 
disposed  me  to  distrust  the  influence  v.diich  Count  Fosco 
has  exercised  over  my  thoughts  and  feelings,  and  to  resist 
)t_,  for  the  future,  as  resolutely  as  1  can. 

The  boat-house  was  large  enough  to  hold  us  all;  but  Sir 
Percival  remained  outside,  trimming  the  last  new  stick 
with  his  pockct-ax.  We  three  women  found  plenty  of 
room  on  the  large  seat.  Laura  took  her  work,  and  Mme. 
Fosco  began  her  cigarettes.  1,  as  usual,  had  nothing  to  do. 
My  hands  always  were,  and  always  will  be,  as  awkward  as 
a  man's.  The  Count  good-humoredly  took  a  stool  many 
sizes  too  small  for  him,  and  balaiiccd  himself  on  it  with  his 
back  agaiust  the  side  of  the  shed,  Mhicli  ci'caked  and 
groaned  under  his  weight,  lie  put  the  pagoda-cage  on  his 
lap,  and  let  out  the  mice  to  crawl  over  hi)ii  as  usual.  They 
are  pretty,  innocent-looking  little  creatures;  but  the  sight 
of  them,  creeiiing  about  a  man's  body,  is,  for  some  reason, 
not  pleasant  to  me.  It  excites  a  strange,  responsive  creep- 
ing in  my  own  nerves;  and  suggests  hideous  ideas  of  men 
dying  in  prison,  with  the  crawling  creatures  of  the  dungeon 
preying  on  them  undisturl.)ed. 

The  morning  was  windy  and  cloudy,  and  the  rapid  alter- 
nations of  shadow  and  sunlight  over  the  waste  of  the  lake 
made  the  vier/  look  doubly  wild,  weird,  and  gloomy. 

"  Some  people  call  that  pictures(iue,"  said  vSir  Percival^ 
pointing  over  the  wide  prospect  with  his  half-finished  walk- 
ing-stick. "  I  call  it  a  blot  on  a  gentleman's  property. 
In  my  great-grandfather's  time  the  lake  flowed  to  this 
place.  Look  at  it  now!  It  is  not  four  feet  deep  anywhere, 
and  it  is  all  puddles  and  pools.  I  wish  I  could  afford  to 
drain  it,  and  plant  it  all  over.  My  bailiff  (a  superstitious 
idiot)  says  he  is  quite  sure  the  lake  has  a  curse  on  it,  like 
the  Dead  Sea.  What  do  you  think,  Fosco?  It  looks  just 
the  place  for  a  murder,  doesn't  it?" 

"  My  good  Percival!"  remonstrated  the  Count.     "  What 


23i  THE    WOMAN    IN    V^'BITE. 

is  your  solid  English  sense  thinking  of?  The  water  is  too 
shallow  to  hide  the  body;  and  there  is  saud  everywhere  to 
print  oS  the  murderer's  footsteps.  It  is,  upon  the  whole, 
the  very  worst  i)Iace  for  a  uiurder  that  I  ever  set  my  eyes 
on." 

"  Humbug!"  said  8ir  Percival,  cutting  away  fiercely  at 
his  stick.  "  You  know  what  I  mean.  The  dreary  scenery 
— the  lonely  situation.  If  you  choose  to  understand  me, 
you  can — if  you  don't  choose,  I  am  not  going  to  trouble 
myself  to  explain  my  meaning." 

'"  And  why  not,"  asked  tlie  Couiit,  "  when  your  mean- 
ing can  be  explained  by  anybody  in  two  words?  If  a  fool 
was  going  to  commit  a  murder,  your  lake  is  the  first  place 
he  would  choose  for  it.  If  a  wise  man  v,as  going  to  com- 
mit a  muider,  your  lake  is  the  last  place  he  would  choose 
for  it.  Is  that  your  meaning?  If  it  is,  there  is  your  ex- 
planation for  you,  ready  made.  Take  it,  Percival,  with 
your  good  Fosco's  blessing." 

Laura  looked  at  the  Count,  v.  ith  her  dislike  for  him  ap- 
pearing a  little  too  plainly  in  her  face.  He  was  so  busy 
with  his  mice  that  ho  did  not  notice  her. 

*'  I  am  sorry  to  hear  the  lake  view  connected  with  any- 
thing so  horrible  as  the  idea  of  murder,"  she  said.  "  And 
if  Count  Fosco  must  divide  murderers  into  classes,  I  think 
he  has  been  very  unfortunate  in  his  choice  of  expressions. 
To  describe  them  as  fools  only,  seems  like  treating  them 
with  an  indulgence  to  which  they  have  no  claim.  And  to 
describe  them  as  wise  men,  sounds  to  me  like  a  downright 
contradiction  in  terms.  1  have  always  heard  that  truly 
wise  men  are  truly  good  men,  and  have  a  horror  of  cnme. " 

"  My  dear  lady,"  said  the  Connt,  "  those  are  admirable 
sentiments;  and  I  have  seen  them  stated  at  the  tops  of 
cop3^-books. "  He  lifted  one  of  the  white  mice  ni  the  pahn 
of  his  hand,  and  spoke  to  it  in  his  whimsical  way.  '*  My 
pretty  little  smooth  white  rascal,"  he  said,  "here  is  a 
moral  lesson  for  you.  A  truly  wise  Mouse  is  a  truly  good 
Mouse.  Mention  that,  if  you  please,  to  your  companions, 
and  never  gnaw  at  the  bars  of  your  cage  again  as  long  as 
you  live." 

"  It  is  easy  to  turn  everything  into  ridicule,"  said 
Laura,  resolutely;  "  but  you  will  not  find  it  quite  so  easy. 
Count  Fosco,  to  give  me  an  instance  of  a  wise  man  who 
has  been  a  great  criminal. ". 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  325 

The  Count  shrugged  his  huge  shoulders,  and  smiled  on 
Laura  in  the  friendliest  manner. 

"  Most  true!"  he  said.  "  The  fool's  ciime  is  the  crime 
<rhat  is  found  out;  and  the  wise  man's  crime  is  the  crime 
fhat  is  not  found  out.  If  1  could  give  you  an  instance,  it 
would  not  be  the  instance  of  a  wise  man.  Dear  Lady 
(rlyde,  your  sound  English  common  sense  has  been  too 
much  for  me.  It  is  checkmate  for  me  this  time.  Miss 
Halcombe — ha?" 

"  Stand  to  your  guns,  Laura,"  sneered  Sir  Percival,  who 
had  been  listening  in  his  place  at  the  door.  "  Tell  him, 
next,  that  crimes  cause  their  own  detection.  There's  an- 
other bit  of  copy-book  morality  for  you,  Fosco.  Crimes 
cause  their  own  detection.     What  infernal  humbug!'"' 

"  I  believe  it  to  be  true,"  said  Laura,  quietly. 

Sir  Percival  burst  out  laughing;  so  violently,  so  outra- 
geously, that  he  quite  startled  us  all — the  Count  more  than 
any  of  us. 

"  I  believe  it,  too,"  I  said,  coming  to  Laura's  rescue. 

Sir  Percival,  who  had  been  unaccountably  amused  at  his' 
wife's  remark,   was,  just  as  unaccountably,   irritated   by 
mnie.     He  struck  the  new  stick  savagely  on  the  sand,  and 
walked  away  from  us. 

"  Poor  dear  Percival!'"'  cried  Count  Fosco,  looking  after 
him  gayly;  "  he  is  the  victim  of  English  spleen.  But,  m^ 
dear  Miss  Halcombe,  my  dear  Lady  Clyde,  do  you  really 
believe  that  crimes  cause  thp'.r  own  detection?  And  you, 
my  angel,"  he  continued,  turning  to  his  wife,  who  had  not 
uttered  a  word  yet,  "do  you  think  so  too?" 

*'  I  wait  to  be  instructed,"  replied  the  Countess,  in  tones 
of  freezing  reproof,  intended  for  Laura  and  me,  "  before  1 
venture  on  giving  my  opinion  in  the  presence  of  well-in- 
formed men." 

"Do  you,  indeed?"  I  said.  "I  remember  the  time. 
Countess,  when  you  advocated  the  Rights  of  Women — and 
freedom  of  female  opinion  was  one  of  them." 

"  What  is  your  view  of  the  subject.  Count?"  asked  Mme, 
Fosco,  calmly  proceeding  with  her  cigarettes,  and  not  tak- 
ing the  least  notice  of  me. 

The  Count  stroked  one  of  his  white  mice  reflectively  with 
his  chubby  little  finger  before  he  answered. 

"  It  is  truly  wonderful,"  he  said,  "  how  easily  Sooipty 
iian  console  itself  for  the  v/orst  of  its  shortcomiugd  wiLli  a 


236  THE    WOMAN-    IN    WHITE. 

little  bit  of  clap-trap.  Tiie  machinery  it  has  set  up  fos 
the  detectiou  of  crime  is  miserably  ineiTectivG — and  yet  only 
invent  a  moral  epigram,  saying  that  it  works  well,  and  you 
blind  everybody  to  its  blunders  from  J.hat  moment.  Crimes 
cause  their  own  detection,  do  they:'^  And  murder  will  out 
(another  moral  epigram),  will  it?  Ask  Coroners  who  sit 
at  inquests  in  large  towns  if  that  is  true.  Lady  Clyde.  Ask 
secretaries  of  life  assurance  companies,  if  that  is  true,  Miss 
Halcombe.  Read  your  own  public  journals.  In  the  tev! 
cases  that  get  into  tlie  newspapers,  are  tbere  not  instances- 
of  slain  bodies  found,  and  no  murderers  ever  discovered? 
Multiply  the  cases  that  are  reported  by  the  cases  that  are 
itot  reported,  and  the  bodies  that  are  found  by  the  bodies 
that  are  not  found;  and  what  conclusion  do  you  come  to? 
This:  That  there  are  foolish  criminals  who  are  discovered, 
and  wise  criminals  who  escape.  The  hiding  of  a  crime,  or 
the  detection  of  a  crime,  what  is  it?  A  trial  of  skill  be- 
tween the  police  on  one  side,  and  the  individual  on  the 
other.  When  the  criminal  is  a  brutal,  ignorant  fool,  the 
•police,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  win.  When  the  criminal 
's  a  resolute,  educated,  highly  intelligent  man,  the  police, 
in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  lose.  If  the  police  win,  you  gen- 
erally hear  all  about  it.  If  the  police  lose,  you  generally 
hear  nothing.  And  on  this  tottering  foundation  you  build 
up  your  comfortable  moral  maxim  that  Crime  causes  its 
(uvii  detection!  Yes — ail  the  crime  you  know  of.  And 
what  of  the  rest?" 

"  Devilish  true,  and  very  well  put,"  cried  a  voice  at  the 
entrance  of  the  boat-house.  Sir  Percival  had  recovered  his 
equanimity,  and  had  come  back  while  we  were  listening  to 
the  Count. 

"  Some  of  it  may  bo  true,"  I  said;  "  and  all  of  it  may 
b  ■  very  well  pat.  Bat  I  don't  see  why  Count  Fosco  should 
ceh^brate  the  victory  of  the  criminal  over  society  with  so 
much  exulcation,  or  why  you,  Sir  Percival,  should  applaud 
him  so  loudly  for  doing  it." 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  Fosco?"  asked  Sir  Percival. 
"  Take  my  advice,  and  make  your  peace  with  your  audi- 
ence. Tell  them  Virtue's  a  fine  thing — they  like  that,  i 
can  promise  you. " 

The  Count  laughed,  inwardly  and  silently;  and  two  of 
the  white  mice  in  his  waistcoat,  alarmed  ty  Mie  internal 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WITITR.  227 

convulsion  going  on  beneath  them,  darted  out  in  a  violent 
hurry,  and  scrambled  into  their  cage  again. 

"  The  ladies,  my  good  Percival,  shall  tell  me  about  virt- 
ue/' he  said.  "  They  are  better  authorities  than  1  am; 
for  they  know  what  virtue  is,  and  I  don't." 

"  You  hear  him?"  said  Sir  Percival.     "  Isn't  it  awful?" 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  Count,  quietly.  "  I  am  a  citizen 
of  the  world,  and  I  have  met,  in  my  time,  with  so  many 
different  sorts  of  virtue,  that  I  am  puzzled,  in  my  old  age, 
to  say  which  is  the  right  sort  and  which  is  the  wrong. 
Here,  in  England,  there  is  one  virtue.  And  there,  v^ 
China,  there  is  another  virtue.  And  John  Englishman 
says  my  virtue  is  the  genuine  virtue.  And  John  China- 
man says  my  virtue  is  the  genuine  virtue.  And  1 
say  Yes  to  one,  or  No  to  the  other,  and  am  just  as  much 
bewildered  about  it  in  the  case  of  John  with  the  top-boots 
as  1  am  in  the  case  of  John  with  the  pig-tail.  Ah,  nice 
little  Mousey!  come,  kiss  me.  What  is  your  own  private 
notion  of  a  virtuous  man,  my  pret-pret-pretty?  A  man 
who  keeps  you  warm,  and  gives  you  plenty  to  eat.  And  a 
good  notion,  too,  for  it  is  intelligible,  at  the  least." 

"  Stay  a  minute,  Count,"  1  interposed.  "  Accepting 
your  illustration,  surely  we  have  one  unquestionable  virtue 
in  England,  which  is  wanting  in  China.  The  Chinese  au- 
thorities kill  thousands  of  innocent  people,  on  the  most 
frivolous  pretexts.  We,  in  England,  are  free  from  all 
guilt  of  that  kind — we  commit  no  such  dreadful  crime — 
we  abhor  reckless  bloodshed,  with  all  our  hearts," 

"  Quite  right,  Marian,"  said  Laura.  "  Well  thought  of, 
and  well  expressed. " 

"  Pray  allow  the  Count  to  proceed,"  said  Mme.  Fosoo, 
with  stern  civility.  "  You  will  find,  young  ladies,  that  he. 
never  speaks  without  having  excellent  reasons  for  all  tliat 
he  says." 

'*  Thank  you,  my  angel,"  replied  the  Count.  "  Have  a 
bonbon?"  He  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  pretty  little  inlaid 
box,  and  placed  it  open  on  the  table.  "  Chocolat  a  la 
Vanille,"  cried  the  impenetrable  man.  cheerfully  rattlino 
the  sweetmeats  in  the  box,  and  biwingall  round.  "  Offered 
by  Fosco  as  an  act  of  homnge  to  the  charming  society." 

"  Be  good  enough  to  go  on.  Count,"  said  his  wife,  with 
a  spiteful  reference  to  myself.  "  Oblige  me  by  answering 
Miss  Halcombe." 


328  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"Miss  ITalcombe  is  unanswerable,"  replied  the  polite 
Italian — "  that  is  to  say,  so  far  as  she  goes.  Yes!  I  agree 
with  her.  John  Bull  does  abhor  the  crimes  of  John  China- 
man. He  is  the  quickest  old  gentleman  at  finding  out  the 
faults  that  are  his  neighbors',  and  the  slowest  old  gentle- 
man at  finding  out  the  faults  that  are  his  own,  who  exists 
on  the  face  of  creation.  Is  he  so  very  much  better  in  his 
way,  than  the  people  whom  he  condemns  in  their  way? 
English  society.  Miss  Halcombe,  is  as  often  the  accomplice, 
as  it  is  the  enemy,  of  crime.  Yes!  yes!  Crime  is  in  this 
country  what  crime  is  in  other  countries — a  good  friend 
to  a  man  and  to  those  about  him  as  often  as  it  is  an  enemy. 
A  great  rascal  provides  for  his  wife  and  family.  The  worse 
he  is,  the  more  he  makes  them  the  objects  for  your  sym- 
pathy. He  often  provides,  also,  for  himself.  A  profligate 
spendthrift  who  is  always  borrowing  money,  will  get  more 
from  his  friends  than  the  rigidly  honest  man  who  only  bor- 
rows of  them  ouc^,  under  pressure  of  the  direst  want.  )  In 
the  one  case,  the  friends  will  not  be  at  all  surprised,  and 
they  will  give.  In  the  other  case,  they  will  be  very  much 
surprised,  and  they  will  hesitate.  Is  the  prison  that  Mr. 
Scoundrel  lives  in,  at  the  end  of  his  career,  a  more  uncom- 
fortable place  than  the  work-house  that  Mr.  Honesty  lives 
in,  at  the  end  of  his  career?  When  John-Howard-Philan- 
thropist wants  to  relieve  misery,  he  goes  to  find  it  in  pris- 
ons, where  crime  is  wretched — not  in  huts  and  hovels, 
where  virtue  is  wretched  too.  Who  is  the  English  poet 
who  has  won  the  most  universal  sympathy — who  makes 
the  easiest  of  all  subjects  for  pathetic  writing  and  pathetic 
painting?  That  nice  young  person  who  began  life  with  a 
forgery,  and  ended  it  by  a  suicide — your  dear,  romantic, 
interesting  Chatterton.  Which  gets  on  best,  do  you  think, 
of  two  poor  starving  dress-makers — the  woman  who  resists 
temptation,  and  is  honest,  or  the  woman  who  falls  under 
temptation,  and  steals?  You  all  know  that  the  stealing  is 
the  making  of  that  second  woman's  fortune — it  advertises 
her  from  l-^ngth  to  breadth  of  good-humored,  charitable 
England — a.ul  she  is  relieved,  as  the  breaker  of  a  com- 
mandment, v,'hen  she  would  have  been  left  to  starve,  as  the 
keeper  of  it.  Come  here,  my  jolly  little  Mouse!  Ili'v! 
presto!  pass!  I  transform  you,  for  the  time  being,  into  a 
respectable  lady.  Stop  there,  in  the  })alm  of  m\-  great  I'ig 
hand,  my  dear,  and  listen.     Y'ou  marry  the  poor  man 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  229 

whom  you  love.  Mouse;  and  one  half  your  friends  pity, 
and  the  (.jtiier  1ml f  blame  you.  And  now,  on  the  contrary, 
you  sell  yourself  for  gold  to  a  man  you  don't  care  for;  and 
all  your  friends  rejoice  over  you;  and  a  minister  of  public 
worship  sanctions  the  base  horror  of  the  vilest  of  all  human 
bargains;  and  smiles  and  smirks  afterward  at  your  table, 
if  you  are  polite  enough  to  ask  him  to  breakfast.  Hey! 
presto!  pass!  Be  a  mouse  again,  and  squeak.  If  you  con- 
tinue to  be  a  lady  much  longer,  1  shall  have  you  telling  me 
that  Society  abhors  crime — and  then,  Mouse,  I  shall  doubt 
if  your  own  eyes  and  ears  are  really  of  any  use  to  you. 
Ah!  I  am  a  bad  man.  Lady  Glyde,  am  1  not?  I  say  what 
other  people  only  think;  and  when  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
is  in  a  conspiracy  to  accept  the  mask  for  the  true  face, 
mine  is  the  rash  hand  that  tears  off  the  plump  pasteboard, 
and  shows  the  bare  bones  beneath.  1  will  get  up  on  my 
big  elephant's  legs,  before  I  do  myself  any  more  harm  in 
your  amiable  estimations — 1  will  get  up,  and  take  a  little 
airy  walk  of  my  own.  Dear  ladies,  as  your  excellent  Sheri- 
dan said,  I  go— and  leave  my  character  behind  me.'' 

He  got  up;  put  the  cage  on  the  table,  and  paused,  for  a 
moment,  to  count  the  mice  in  it.  "  One,  two,  three, 
four —  Ha!"  he  cried,  with  a  look  of  horror,  "  where,  in 
the  name  of  Heaven,  is  the  fiflh — the  youngest,  the  whitest, 
the  most  amiable  of  all — my  Benjamin  of  mice!" 

Neither  Laura  nor  1  was  in  any  favorable  disposition  to 
be  amused.  '1  he  Count's  glib  cynicism  had  revealed  a  new 
aspect  of  his  nature  from  which  we  both  recoiled.  But  it 
was  impossible  to  resist  tlie  comical  distress  of  so  very  large 
a  man  at  the  loss  of  so  very  snuiU  a  mouse.  We  laughed, 
in  spite  of  ourselves:  and  when  Mme.  Fosco  rose  to  set  the 
example  of  leaving  the  boat-house  empty,  so  that  her  hus- 
band might  search  it  to  its  remotest  corners,  we  rose  also 
to  follow  her  out. 

Before  we  had  taken  three  steps,  the  Count's  quick  eye 
discovered  the  lost  mouse  under  the  seat  that  we  had  been 
occupying.  He  pulled  aside  the  bench;  took  the  little  ani- 
mal up  in  his  hand;  and  then  suddenly  stopped,  on  his 
knees,  looking  intently  at  a  particular  place  on  the  ground 
just  beneath  him. 

When  he  rose  to  his  feet  again,  his  hand  shook  so  thai 
he  could  hardly  put  the  mouse  back  in  the  cage,  and  his 
face  was  of  a  faint,  livid,  vellow  hue  all  over. 


230  THE    WOMAN    IN    -^VHITE. 

"Percival!"  he  said,  in  a  whisper.  "  Percival!  come 
here." 

Sir  Percival  bad  paid  no  attention  to  any  of  us  for  the 
last  ten  minutes.  He  had  been  entirely  absorbed  in  writ- 
ing figures  on  the  sand,  and  then  rubbing  them  out  again, 
with  the  point  of  his  stick. 

"  What's  the  matter,  now?"  he  asked,  lounging  care- 
lessly into  the  boat-house. 

"  Do  you  see  nothing  thei-e?"  said  the  Count,  catching 
him  nervously  by  the  collar  with  one  hand,  and  pointing 
with  the  other  to  the  place  near  which  he  had  found  the 
mouse. 

"  I  see  plenty  of  dry  sand,"  answered  Sir  Percival,  "  and 
a  spot  of  dirt  in  the  middle  of  it." 

'  Not  dirt,'*  whispered  the  Count,  fastening  the  other 
hand  suddenly  on  Sir  Percival's  collar,  and  shaking  it  in 
his  agitation.     "  Blood." 

Laura  was  near  enough  to  hear  the  last  word,  softly  as 
ne  whispered  it.     She  turned  to  me  with  a  look  of  terror. 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear,"  I  said.  "  There  is  no  need  to 
be  alarmed.  It  is  only  the  blood  of  a  poor  little  stray 
dog." 

Everybody  was  astonished,  and  everybody's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  me  inquiringly. 

"  How  do  you  know  that?"  asked  Sir  Percival,  speaking 
first. 

"  I  found  the  dog  here,  dying,  on  the  day  when  you  all 
returned  from  abroad,"  I  replied.  "The  poor  creature 
had  strayed  into  the  plantation,  and  had  been  shot  by  your 
keeper." 

"  Whose  dog  was  it?"  inquired  Sir  Percival.  "  Not  one 
of  mine?" 

"  Did  you  try  to  save  the  poor  thing?"  asked  Laura, 
earnestly.     "  Surely  you  tried  to  save  it,  Marian?" 

"  Yes,"  1  said;  "the  housekeeper  and  1  both  did  oui 
best — but  the  dog  was  mortally  wounded,  and  he  died  un- 
der our  hands." 

"  Whose  dog  was  it?"  persisted  Sir  Percival,  repeating 
his  question  a  little  irritably.     "  One  of  mine?" 

"  No;  not  one  of  yours." 

"  Whose  then?     Did  the  liousekeeper  know?" 

The  housekeeper's  report  of  Mrs.  Catherink's  desire  to 
conceal   her  visit   to  lilackwuter   Puik  from  Sir  PerLival's 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  231 

knowledge  recurred  to  my  memory  the  moment  he  pnt  that 
idsi  question,  and  I  half  doubted  the  discretion  of  answer- 
ing it.  But,  in  ray  anxiety  to  quiet  the  general  alarm,  I 
had  thoughtlessly  advanced  too  far  to  draw  back,  except  at 
the  risk  of  exciting  suspicion  which  might  only  make  mat- 
ters worse.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  answer  at 
once,  without  reference  to  results. 

"  Yes,"  1  said.  "  The  housekeeper  knew.  She  told 
mo  it  was  Mrs,  Catherick's  dog." 

Sir  Percival  had  hitherto  remained  at  the  inner  end  of 
the  boat-house  with  Count  Fosco,  while  I  spoke  to  him 
from  the  door.  But  the  instant  Mrs.  Catherick's  name 
passed  my  lips,  he  pushed  by  the  Count  roughly,  and  placed 
himself  face  to  face  with  me,  under  the  open  daylight. 

"How  came  the  housekeeper  to  know  it  was  Mrs. 
Catherick's  dog?"  he  asked,  fixing  his  eyes  on  mine  with 
a  frowning  interest  and  attention  which  half  angered,  half 
startled  me. 

"  She  knew  it,"  I  said,  quietly,  "  because  Mrs.  Oath- 
erick  brought  the  dog  .vith  her." 

'  Brought  it  with  her.''  Where  did  she  bring  it  with 
iier?" 

"To  this  house." 

"  What  the  devil  did  Mrs.  Catherick  want  at  thishouse?'^ 

The  manner  in  which  he  put  the  question  was  even  more 
offensive  than  the  language  in  which  he  expressed  it.  I 
marked  my  sense  of  his  want  of  common  politeness  by 
silently  turning  away  from  him. 

Just  as  I  moved,  the  Count's  persuasive  hand  was  laid 
on  his  shoulder,  and  the  Count's  mellifluous  voice  inter- 
posed to  quiet  him. 

"  My  dear  Percival! — gently — gently.'^ 

Sir  Percival  looked  round  in  his  angriest  manner.  Th<> 
Count  only  smiled,  and  repeated  the  soothing  applicati(~n. 

"  Gently,  my  good  friend — gently!'* 

Sir  Percival  hesitated — followed  me  a  few  steps^ — and_.  to 
my  great  surprise,  offered  me  an  apology. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said.  *'  I 
nave  been  out  of  order  lately;  and  I  am  afraid  I  am  a  little 
ji'ritable.  But  I  should  like  to  know  what  Mrs.  Catherick 
cnuld  possibly  want  here.  When  did  she  come?  Was  the 
^jjdseKeeper  the  only  person  who  saw  her?'^ 

"  The  only  person-"  "^  pnswe'ed,  ''  so  .far  as  I  know." 


232  THE    WOMAN     IN     WHITE. 

The  Count  interposed  again. 

"  In  that  case  why  not  question  the  housekeeper?"  he 
said.  "  Why  not  go,  Percival,  to  the  fountaiu-head  of  in- 
formation at  once?"' 

''  Quite  right  I"  said  Sir  Percival.  ''  Of  course  the  house- 
keeper is  thi3  first  person  to  question.  Excessively  stupia 
of  nie  not  to  see  it  myself. ""  Witli  those  words,  he  instant- 
ly left  us  to  return  to  the  house. 

The  motive  of  the  Count's  interference,  which  had  puz- 
zled me  at  first,  betrayed  itself  wiien  Sir  Percival's  back 
was  turned,  tie  had  a  host  of  questions  to  put  to  mo 
about  Mrs.  Cafherick,  and  the  cause  of  her  visit  to  Black- 
water  Park,  which  he  could  scarcely  have  asked  in  his 
friend's  preseuce.  I  made  my  answers  as  short  as  1  civilly 
could — for  1  had  already  determined  to  check  the  least  ap- 
proach to  any  exchanging  of  confidences  between  Count 
Fosco  and  myself.  Laura,  however,  unconsciously  helped 
him  to  extract  all  my  information,  by  making  inquiries 
herself,  which  left  me  no  alternative  but  to  reply  to  her,  or 
to  appear  in  the  very  unenviable  and  very  false  character 
of  a  depository  of  Sir  Percival's  secrets.  The  end  of  it 
was,  that,  in  about  ten  minutes'  time,  the  Count  knew  as 
much  as  I  know  of  Mrs.  Catherick,  and  of  the  events  which 
have  so  strangely  connected  us  with  her  daughter,  Anne, 
from  the  time  when  Hartright  met  with  her  to  this  day. 

The  effect  of  my  information  on  him  was,  in  one  respect, 
curious  enough. 

Intimately  as  he  knows  Sir  Percival,  and  closely  as  he 
appears  to  be  associated  with  Sir  Percival's  private  affairs 
ni  general,  he  is  certainly  as  far  as  I  am  from  knowing 
anything  of  the  true  story  of  Anne  Catherick.  The  un- 
solved mystery  in  connection  with  this  unhappy  woman  is 
now  rendered  doubly  suspicious,  in  my  eyes,  by  the  absa 
lute  conviction  which  I  feel  that  the  clew  to  it  has  been 
hidden  by  Sir  Percival  from  the  most  intimate  friend  he 
has  in  the  world.  It  was  impossible  to  mistake  the  eager 
curiosity  of  the  Count's  look  and  manner  while  he  drank 
Ml  greedily  every  word  that  fell  from  my  lips.  There  are 
many  kinds  of  curiosity,  I  know— but  there  is  no  misinter- 
preting the  curiosity  of  blank  surprise;  if  I  ever  saw  it  in 
my  life,  I  saw  it  in  the  Count's  face. 

While  the  questions  and  answers  were  going  on  we  had 
all  been  strolling  quietly  back  through  the  plantation.     A« 


THE    WOMAK    IN    WHITE.  233 

soon  as  we  reached  the  house,  the  first  object  that  we  saw 
in  front  of  it  was  Sir  Pei-cival's  dog-cart,  with  the  horse 
put  to,  and  the  groom  waiting  by  it  in  his  stable-jacket. 
If  these  unexpected  appearances  were  to  be  trusted,  the  ex- 
amination of  the  housekeeper  had  produced  important  re- 
sults already. 

"  A  fine  horse,  my  friend,"  said  the  Count,  addressing 
the  groom  with  the  most  engaging  familiarity  of  manner. 
"  You  are  going  to  drive  out?" 

"  /  am  not  going,  sir,'^  replied  the  man,  looking  at  his 
stable-jacket,  and  evidently  wondering  whether  the  foreign 
gentleman  took  it  for  his  livery.  "  My  master  drives  him- 
self." 

"Aha!"  said  the  Count,  "does  he  indeed?  1  wonder 
he  gives  himself  the  trouble  when  he  has  got  you  to  drive 
for  him.  Is  he  going  to  fatigue  that  nice,  shining,  pretty 
horse  by  taking  him  very  far  to-day?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  answered  the  man.  "  The  horse 
is  a  mare,  if  you  please,  sir.  She's  the  highest-couraged 
thing  we've  got  in  the  stables.  Her  name's  Brown  Molly, 
sir;  and  she'll  go  till  she  drops.  Sir  Percival  usually  takes 
Isaac  of  York  for  the  short  distances." 

"  And  your  shining,  courageous  Brown  Molly  for  the 
Jong?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Logical  inference.  Miss  Halcombe,"  continued  the 
Count,  wheeling  round  briskly,  and  addressing  me;  "  Sir 
Percival  is  going  a  long  distance  to-day." 

I  made  no  reply.  I  had  my  own  inferences  to  draw, 
from  what  I  knew  through  the  housekeeper  and  from  what 
I  saw  before  me;  and  I  did  not  choose  to  share  them  with 
Count  Fosco. 

When  Sir  Percival  was  in  Cumberland  (1  thought  to  my- 
self), he  walked  away  a  long  distance,  on  Anne's  account, 
to  question  the  family  at  Todd's  Corner.  Now  he  is  in 
Hampshire,  is  he  going  to  drive  away  a  long  distance,  on 
Anne's  account  again,  to  question  Mrs.  Catherickat  Weim- 
\ngham? 

We  all  entered  the  house.  As  we  crossed  the  hall.  Sir 
Percival  came  out  from  the  library  to  meet  us.  He  looked 
hurried  and  pale  and  anxious— but,  for  all  that,  he  was  in 
his  most  polite  mood  when  he  spoke  to  us. 

*'  I  am  sorry  to  say,  1  am  obliged  to  leave  you,"  he  be- 


234:  mt.  Woman  in  white. 

gan— **  a  long  drive— a  matter  tha-t  I  can't  very  well  put 
off.  I  shall  be  back  in  good  time  to-morrow,  but,  before 
I  go,  I  siioiild  like  that  little  business  formality,  which  I 
spoke  of  this  morning,  to  be  settled.  Laura,  will  you  come 
into  the  library?  It  wont  take  a  minute — a  mere  for- 
mality. Countess,  may  1  trouble  you  also?  I  want  you 
and  the  Countess,  Fosco,  to  be  witnesses  to  a  signature  — 
nothing  more.     Gome  in  at  once,  and  get  it  over."' 

He  held  the  library  door  open  until  they  had  passed  in, 
followed  them,  and  shut  it  softly. 

I  remained,  for  a  moment  afterward,  standing  alone  in 
the  hall,  with  my  heart  beating  fast,  and  my  mind  misgiv- 
ing me  sadly.  Then  1  went  on  to  the  staircase,  and  as- 
cended slowly  to  my  own  room. 


IV. 

June  17 fh. — Just  as  my  hand  was  on  the  door  of  my 
room,  I  heard  Sir  Percival's  voice  calling  to  me  from  be- 
low. 

"  1  must  beg  you  to  come  down-stairs  again,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  Fosco's  fault,  Miss  Halcombe,  not  mine.  He  has 
started  some  nonsensical  objection  to  his  wife  being  one  of 
the  witnesses,  and  has  obliged  me  to  ask  you  to  join  us  in 
the  library. " 

I  entered  the  room  immediately  with  Sir  Percival.  Laura 
was  waiting  by  the  writing-table,  twisting  and  turning  her 
garden-hat  uneasily  in  her  hands.  Mme.  Fosco  sat  near 
her,  in  an  arm-chair,  imperturbably  admiring  her  husband, 
who  stood  by  himself  at  the  other  end  of  the  library,  pick- 
ing off  the  dead  leaves  from  the  flowers  in  the  window. 

The  moment  1  appeared  the  Count  advanced  to  meet 
me,  and  to  offer  his  explanations. 

''  A  thousand  pardons,  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said.  "  You 
Know  the  character  which  is  given  to  my  countrymen  by 
the  English?  We  Italians  are  all  wily  and  suspicious  by 
nature,  in  the  estimation  of  the  good  John  Bull.  Set  me 
down,  if  you  please,  as  being  no- better  than  the  rest  of  my 
race.  I  am  a  wily  Italian,  and  a  suspicious  Italian.  Yow 
have  thought  so  yourself,  dear  lady,  have  you  not?  Well! 
it  is  part  of  my  willingness  and  part  of  my  suspicion  to 
object  to  Madame  Fosco  being  a  witness  to  Lady  Glydc'ci 
s.'gnature,  when  I  am  also  a  witness  myself." 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  235 

•'  There  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  reason  for  his  objection," 
interposed  Sir  Percival.  '*  I  have  explained  to  him  that 
the  Itiw  of  England  allows  Madame  Fosco  to  witness  a 
signature  as  well  as  her  husband." 

"  J  admit  it,"  resumed  the  Count.  "  The  law  of  Eng- 
land says  Yes — but  the  conscience  of  Fosco  says  No."  He 
spread  out  his  fat  fingers  on  the  bosom  of  his  blouse,  and 
bowed  solemnly,  as  if  he  wished  to  introduce  his  conscience 
to  us  all,  in  the  character  of  an  illustrious  addition  to  the 
society.  "  What  this  document  which  Lady  Glyde  is  about 
to  sign  may  be,"  he  continued,  "  I  neither  know  nor  de- 
sire to  know.  1  only  say  this:  circumstances  may  happen 
in  the  future  which  may  oblige  Percival,  or  his  representa- 
tives, to  appeal  to  the  two  witnesses;  in  which  case  it  is 
certainly  desirable  that  those  witnesses  should  represent 
two  opinions  which  are  perfectly  independent  the  one  of 
the  other.  This  can  not  be  if  my  wife  signs  as  well  as  my- 
self, because  we  have  but  one  opiuion  between  us,  and  that 
opinion  is  mine.  I  will  not  have  it  cast  in  my  teeth,  at 
some  future  day,  that  Madame  Fosco  acted  under  my 
coercion,  and  was,  in  plain  fact,  no  witness  at  all.  1 
speak  in  Percival's  interest  when  I  propose  that  my  name 
shall  appear  (as  the  nearest  friend  of  the  husband),  and 
your  name.  Miss  Halcombe  (as  the  nearest  friend  of  the 
wife).  1  am  a  Jesuit,  if  you  please  to  think  so — a  splitter 
of  straws — a  man  of  trifles  and  crotchets  and  scruples — 
but  you  will  humor  me,  1  hope,  in  merciful  consideration 
for  my  suspicious  Italian  character,  and  my  uneasy  Italian 
conscience."  He  bowed  again,  stepped  back  a  few  paces, 
and  withdrew  his  conscience  from  our  society  as  politely  as 
he  had  introduced  it. 

The  Count's  scruples  might  have  been  honorable  and 
reasonable  enough,  but  there  was  something  in  his  manner 
it  expressing  them  which  increased  my  unwillingness  to  be 
concerned  in  the  business  of  the  signatures.  No  con- 
sideration of  less  importance  than  my  consideration  for 
Laura  would  have  induced  me  to  consent  to  be  a  witness 
at  all.  One  look,  however,  at  her  anxious  face  decided  me 
to  risk  anything  rather  than  desert  her. 

"  1  will  readily  remain  in  the  room,"  1  said.  "  And  if 
1  find  no  reason  for  starting  any  small  scruples  on  my  side, 
you  may  rely  on  mc  as  a  witness." 

Sir  Percival  looked  at  me  sharply,  as  if  he  was  about  to 


236  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

say  something.  Bat,  at  the  same  moment,  Mme.  Poaco 
attracted  his  attention  by  rising  from  her  chair.  She  had 
caught  her  husband's  eye,  and  had  evidently  received  her 
orders  to  leave  the  room. 

"  You  needn't  go,"  said  Sir  Percival. 

Mme.  Fosco  looked  for  her  orders  again,  got  them  again, 
said  she  would  prefer  leaving  us  to  our  business,  and  resO' 
lutely  walked  out.  The  Count  lighted  a  cigarette,  went 
back  to  the  flowers  in  the  window,  and  puffed  little  jets  of 
smoke  at  the  leaves,  in  a  state  of  the  deepest  anxiety  about 
killing  the  insects. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Percival  unlocked  a  cupboard  beneath  one 
of  the  book-cases,  and  produced  from  it  a  piece  of  jsarch- 
ment  folded,  longwise,  many  times  over.  He  placed  it  on 
the  table,  opened  the  last  fold  only,  and  kept  his  hand  on 
the  rest.  The  last  fold  displayed  a  strip  of  blank  parch- 
ment with  little  wafers  stuck  on  it  at  certain  places.  Every 
line  of  the  writing  was  hidden  in  the  part  which  he  still 
held  folded  up  under  his  hand.  Laura  and  I  looked  at 
each  other.  Her  face  was  pale,  but  it  showed  no  indecision 
and  no  fear. 

Sir  Percival  dipped  a  pen  in  ink,  and  handed  it  to  his 
wife. 

"  Sign  your  name  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  place. 
"  You  and  Fosco  are  to  sign  afterward,  Miss  Lfalcombe, 
opposite  those  two  wafers.  Come  here,  Fosco i  witnessing 
a  signature  is  not  to  be  done  by  mooning  out  of  window 
and  smoking  into  the  flowers." 

The  Count  threw  away  his  cigarette,  and  joined  us  at 
the  table,  with  his  hands  carelessly  thrust  inlo  the  scarlet 
belt  of  his  blouse,  and  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  Sir  Per- 
cival's  face.  Laura,  who  was  on  the  other  sirle  of  her  hus- 
band, with  the  pen  in  her  hand,  looked  at  him  too.  He 
stood  between  them,  holding  the  folded  parchment  down 
firmly  on  the  table,  and  glancing  across  at  me,  as  I  sat  op- 
posite to  him,  with  such  a  sinister  mixture  of  suspicion  and 
embarrassment  in  his  face,  that  he  looked  more  like  a  pris- 
oner at  the  bar  than  a  gentleman  in  his  own  house. 

"  Sign  there,"  he  repeated,  turning  suddenly  on  Laura, 
and  pointing  once  more  to  the  place  on  the  parchment. 

"  What  is  it  I  am  to  sign?"  she  asked,  quietly. 

"  I  have  no  time  to  explain,"  he  answered.  "  The  dog- 
cart is  at  the  door;  and  i  must  go  directly.     Besides,  if  I 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  23? 

had  time,  you  wouldn't  understand.  It  is  a  purely  formal 
document — full  of  h  gul  technicalities,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Come!  come!  sign  your  name,  and  let  us  have 
done  as  soon  as  possible. '' 

"  I  ought  surely  to  know  what  1  am  signing,  Sir  Per- 
cival,  before  I  write  my  name?" 

"  Nonsense!  What  have  women  to  do  with  business?  I 
tell  you  again,  you  can't  understand  it." 

"  At  any  rate,  let  me  try  to  understand  it.  Whenever 
Mr.  Gilmore  had  any  business  for  me  to  do,  he  always  ex- 
plained it  first;  and  I  always  understood  him." 

"  1  dare  say  he  did.  He  was  your  servant,  and  was 
obliged  to  explain.  I  am  your  husband,  and  am  not 
obliged.  How  much  longer  do  you  mean  to  keep  me  here? 
1  tell  you  again,  there  is  no  time  for  reading  anything;  the 
dog-cart  is  waiting  at  the  door.  Once  for  all,  will  you 
sign,  or  will  you  not?" 

She  still  had  the  pen  in  her  hand;  but  she  made  no  ap- 
proach to  signing  her  name  with  it. 

"  If  my  signature  pledges  me  to  anything,'*  she  said, 
"  surely  1  have  some  claim  to  know  what  that  pledge  is?" 
He  lifted  up  the  parchment,  and  struck  it  angrily  on  the 
table. 

"  Speak  out!"  he  said.  "  You  were  always  famous  for 
telling  the  truth.  Never  mind  Miss  Halcombe;  never 
mind  Fosco — say,  in  plain  terms,  you  distrust  me." 

The  Count  took  one  of  his  hands  out  of  his  belt,  and  laid 
it  on  Sir  Percival's  shoulder.  Sir  Percival  shook  it  off 
irritably.  The  Count  put  it  on  again  with  unruffled  com- 
posure. 

"  Control  vour  unfortunate  temper,  Percival,"  he  said. 
*'Lady  Clyde  is  right." 

"Right!"  cried  Sir  Percival.  *' A  wife  right  in  dis- 
trusting her  husband?" 

"  It  is  unjust  and  cruel  to  accuse  me  of  distrusting  you," 
»aid  Laura.  "  Ask  Marian  if  1  am  not  justified  in  wanting 
to  know  what  this  writing  requires  of  me,  before  I  sign 
it?" 

"  I  won't  have  any  appeals  made  to  Miss  Halcombe,"' 
retorted  Sir  Percival.  "  Miss  Halcombe  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  matter." 

1  had  not  spoken  hitherto,  and  1  would  much  rather  not 
have  spoken  now.    But  the  exnressiou  of  distress ia  Laura's 


338  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

face  when  she  turned  it  toward  me,  and  the  insolent  ir* 
justice  of  her  husbaud^s  conduct^  left  me  no  other  alter- 
native than  to  give  my  opinion,  for  her  sake,  as  soon  as  I 
was  asked  for  it. 

"  Excuse  me.  Sir  Percival,"  I  said — "  but,  as  one  of  the 
witnesses  to  the  signature,  I  venture  to  think  that  1  have 
something  to  do  with  the  matter,  Laura's  objection  seems 
to  me  a  perfectly  fair  one;  and,  speaking  for  myself  only^ 
I  can  not  assume  the  responsibility  of  witnessing  her  signa- 
ture, unless  she  first  understands  what  the  writing  is  which 
you  wish  her  to  sign." 

"  A  cool  declaration,  upon  my  soul!"  cried  Sir  Percival. 
"  The  next  time  you  mvite  yourself  to  a  man's  house,  Miss 
Halcombe,  1  recommend  you  not  to  repay  his  hospitality 
by  taking  his  wife's  side  against  him  in  a  matter  thii.t 
doesn't  concern  you." 

1  started  to  my  feet  as  suddenly  as  if  he  had  struck  mo. 
If  I  had  been  a  man,  1  would  have  knocked  him  down  on 
the  threshold  of  his  own  door,  and  have  left  his  house, 
never  on  any  earthly  consideration  to  enter  it  again.  But 
1  was  only  a  woman — and  I  loved  his  wife  so  dearly! 

Thank  God,  that  faithful  love  helped  me,  and  1  sat 
down  again,  vvitliout  saying  a  word.  She  knew  what  I  had 
suffered,  and  what  1  had  suppressed.  She  ran  round  to 
me,  with  the  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  Mari- 
an!" she  whispered,  softly.  "If  my  mother  had  been 
alive,  she  could  have  done  no  more  for  me!" 

"Come  back  and  sign!"  cried  Sir  Percival,  from  the 
other  side  of  the  table. 

"  Shall  I?"  she  asked  in  my  ear;  "  I  will,  if  you  tell 
me." 

"  No,"  1  answered.  "  The  right  and  the  truth  are  with 
you — sign  nothing,  unless  you  have  i*ead  it  first." 

"  Come  back  and  sign!"  he  reiterated,  in  his  loudest  and 
angriest  tones. 

The  Count,  who  had  watched  Laura  and  me  with  a  close 
and  silent  attention,  interposed  for  the  second  time. 

"  Percival!"  he  said  "  1  remember  that  I  am  in  the 
presence  of  ladies.  Be  good  enough,  if  you  please,  to  re- 
member it,  too." 

Sir  Percuval  turned  on  liim,  speechless  with  passion.  The 
Count's  firm  hand  slowly  tighLened  its  grasp  on  his  shoui- 


THE     WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  ;^39 

der,  and  the  Count's  steady  voice  quietly  repeated,  "  Be 
good  enougli,  if  you  please,  to  remember  it,  too." 

They  both  looked  at  each  other:  Sir  Percival  slowly  drew 
his  shoulder  from  under  the  Count's  hand;  slowly  turned 
his  face  away  from  the  Count's  eyes;  doggedly  looked  down 
for  a  little  while  at  the  parchment  on  the  table;  and  then 
spoke,  with  the  sullen  submission  of  a  tamed  animal,  rather 
than  the  becoming  resignation  of  a  convinced  man. 

"  I  don^t  want  to  offend  anybody,"  he  said,  "  but  my 
wife's  obstinacy  is  enough  to  try  the  patience  of  a  saint.  1 
have  told  her  this  is  merely  a  formal  document — and  what 
more  can  she  want?  You  may  say  what  you  please;  but 
it  is  no  part  of  a  woman's  duty  to  set  her  husband  at  defi- 
^ice.  Once  more.  Lady  Glyde,  and  for  the  last  time,  will 
you  sign,  or  will  you  not?" 

Laura  returned  to  his  side  of  the  table,  and  took  up  the 
pen  again. 

"  I  will  sign  with  pleasure,"  she  said,  "  if  you  will  only 
treat  me  as  a  responsible  being.  I  care  little  what  sacri- 
fice is  required  of  me,  if  it  will  affect  no  one  else,  and  lead 
to  no  ill  results — " 

"  Who  talked  of  a  sacrifice  being  required  of  you?"  he 
broke  in,  with  a  half-suppressed  return  of  his  former  vio- 
lence. 

"  I  only  meant,"  she  resumed,  "  that  I  would  refuse  no 
concession  which  1  could  honorably  make.  If  1  have  a 
scruple  about  signing  my  name  to  an  engagement  of  which 
I  know  nothing,  why  should  you  visit  it  on  me  so  severe- 
ly? It  is  rather  hard,  I  think,  to  treat  Count  Fosco's 
scruples  so  much  more  indulgently  than  you  have  treated 
mine." 

This  unfortunate,  yet  most  natural,  reference  to  the 
Count's  extraordinary  power  over  her  husband,  indirect  as 
It  was,  set  Sir  Percival's  smoldering  temper  on  fire  again 
in  an  instant. 

"Scruples!"  he  repeated.  "  Fo?^7' scruples!  It  is  rather 
late  in  the  day  for  you  to  be  scrupulous.  I  should  have 
thought  you  had  got  over  all  weakness  of  that  sort,  when 
you  made  a  virtue  of  necessity  by  marrying  me." 

The  instant  he  spoke  those  words,  Laura  threw  down  the 
pen — looked  at  him  with  an  expression  in  her  eyes,  which 
throughout  all  my  experience  of  her,  I  had  never  seen  in 
them  before — and  turned  her  back  on  him  in  dead  silence^ 


240  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

This  strong  expression  of  the  most  open  and  the  most 
bitter  contempt  was  so  entirely  unlike  herself,  so  utterly 
out  of  her  character,  that  it  silenced  us  all.  There  was 
something  hidden,  beyond  a  doubt,  under  the  mere  sur- 
face-brutality of  the  words  which  her  husband  had  just  ad- 
dressed to  her.  There  was  some  lurking  insult  beiiCath 
them,  of  which  I  was  wholly  ignorant,  but  which  had  left 
the  mark  of  its  profanation  so  plainly  on  her  face  that  even 
a  stranger  might  have  seen  it. 

The  Count,  who  was  no  stranger,  saw  it  as  distinctly  as 
1  did.  When  1  left  my  chair  to  join  Laura,  I  heard  him 
whisper  under  his  breath  to  Sir  Percival,  "  You  idiot!" 

Laura  walked  before  me  to  the  door  as  I  advanced;  and, 
at  the  same  time,  her  husband  spoke  to  her  once  more. 

"  "i'ou  positively  refuse,  then,  to  give  me  your  signa- 
ture?" he  said,  in  the  altered  tone  of  a  man  who  was  con- 
scious that  he  had  let  his  own  license  of  language  seriously 
injure  him. 

"  After  what  you  have  just  said  to  me,"  she  replied, 
firml}^,  "  I  refuse  my  signature  until  1  have  read  every  line 
in  that  parchment  from  the  first  word  to  the  last.  Come 
away,  Marian;  we  have  remained  here  long  enough." 

"  One  moment!"  interposed  the  Count,  before  Sir  Per- 
cival could  speak  again — "  one  moment.  Lady  Glyde,  I  im- 
plore youl'^ 

Laura  would  have  left  the  room  without  noticing  him; 
but  I  stopped  her. 

"  Don't  make  an  enemy  of  the  Count!"  I  whispered. 
"  "Whatever  you  do,  don't  make  an  enemy  of  the  Count!" 

She  yielded  to  me.  I  closed  the  door  again;  and  we  stood 
near  it,  waiting.  Sir  Percival  sat  down  at  the  table,  with 
his  elbow  on  the  folded  parchment,  and  his  head  resting  on 
his  clinched  fist.  The  Count  stood  between  us — master  of 
the  dreadful  position  in  which  we  were  placed,  as  he  was 
master  of  everything  else. 

"  Lady  Clyde,"  he  said,  with  a  gentleness  which  seemed 
to  address  itself  to  our  forlorn  situation  instead  of  to  our- 
selves, "  pray  pardon  me,  if  I  venture  to  offer  one  sugges- 
tion; and  pray  believe  that  1  speak  out  of  my  profound  re- 
spect and  my  friendly  regard  for  the  mistress  of  this 
house."  He  turned  sharply  toward  Sir  Percival.  "  Is  it 
absolutely  necessary,"  he  asked,  "  tiiat  this  thing  here, 
under  your  elbow,  should  be  signed  to-day?" 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  341 

"  It  is  necessary  to  my  plans  and  wishes/'  returned  the 
other,  sulkily.  "  But  that  consideration,  as  you  may  have 
noticed,  has  no  influence  with  Lady  Glyde. " 

"  Answer  my  plain  question  plainly.  Can  the  business 
of  the  signature  be  put  ofE  till  to-morrow — Yes  or  No?" 

"  Yes — if  you  will  have  it  so." 

"  Then  what  are  you  wasting  your  time  for  here?  Let 
the  signature  wait  till  to-morrow — let  it  wait  till  you  come 
back'." 

Sir  Percival  looked  up  with  a  frown  and  an  oath. 

"  You  are  taking  a  tone  with  me  that  I  don't  like,"  he 
said.     "  A  tone  I  won't  bear  from  any  man." 

"  1  am  advising  you  for  your  good,'  returned  the  Count 
with  a  smile  of  quiet  contempt.  "Give  yourself  time-, 
give  Lady  Glyde  time.  Have  you  forgotten  that  your 
dog-cart  is  waiting  at  the  door?  My  tone  surprises  you—, 
ha?  1  dare  say  it  does — it  is  the  tone  of  a  man  who  can 
keep  his  temper.  How  many  doses  of  good  advice  have  I 
given  you  in  my  time?  More  than  you  can  count.  Have 
1  ever  been  wrong?  1  defy  you  to  quote  me  an  instance  of 
it.  Go!  take  your  drive.  The  matter  of  the  signature  can 
wait  till  to-morrow.  Let  it  wait — and  renew  it  when  you 
come  back." 

Sir  Percival  hesitated,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  His 
anxiety  about  the  secret  journey  which  he  was  to  take  that 
-lay,  revived  by  the  Count's  words,  was  now  evidently  dis- 
puting possession  of  his  mind  with  his  anxiety  to  obtain 
Laura's  signature.  He  considered  for  a  little  while  and 
then  got  up  from  his  chair. 

"It  is  easy  to  argue  me  down,"  he  said,  "  when  I  have 
no  time  to  answer  you.  1  will  take  your  advice,  Fosco — 
not  because  1  want  it,  or  believe  in  it,  but  because  I  can't 
stop  here  any  longer."  He  paused,  and  looked  round 
darkly  at  his  wife.  "  If  you  don't  give  me  your  signature 
when  I  come  back  to-morrow — !"  The  rest  was  lost  in 
the  noise  of  his  opening  the  book-case  cupboard  again,  and 
lockmg  up  the  parchment  once  more.  He  took  his  hat 
and  gloves  off  the  table,  and  made  for  the  door.  Laura 
and  I  drew  back  to  let  him  pass.  "  Remember  to-mor- 
row!" he  said  to  his  wife,  and  went  out. 

We  waited  to  give  him  time  to  cross  the  hall  and  drive 
away.  The  Count  approached  us  while  we  were  sLauding 
near  the  dooy. 


243  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  You  have  just  seen  Percival  at  his  worst,  Miss  Hai- 
combe,"  he  said.  "  As  his  old  friend,  I  am  sorry  for  liirn 
and  ashamed  of  him.  As  his  old  friend,  1  promise  you 
that  he  shall  not  break  out  to-morrow  in  the  same  dis- 
graceful manner  in  which  he  has  broken  out  to-day. '' 

Laura  had  taken  my  arm  while  he  was  speaking,  and  she 
pressed  it  significantly  when  he  had  done.  It  would  have 
been  a  hard  trial  to  any  woman  to  stand  by  and  see  ihe 
office  of  apologist  for  her  husband's  misconduct  quietly  as- 
sumed by  his  male  friend  in  her  own  house — and  it  was  a 
trial  to  her.  I  thanked  the  Count  civilly,  and  led  her  out. 
Yes!  I  thanked  him;  for  I  felt  already,  with  a  sense  of  in- 
exjiressible  helplessness  and  humiliation,  that  it  was  either 
his  interest  or  his  caprice  to  make  sure  of  my  continuing 
to  reside  at  Black  water  Park;  and  I  knew  after  Sir  Per- 
cival's  conduct  to  me,  that  without  the  support  of  the 
Count's  influence,  1  could  not  hope  to  remain  there.  His 
influence,  the  influence  of  all  others  that  1  dreaded  most, 
was  actually  the  one  tie  which  now  held  me  to  Laura  in  the 
hour  of  her  utmost  need! 

We  heard  the  wheels  of  the  dog-cart  crashing  on  the 
gravel  of  the  drive,  as  we  came  into  the  hall.  Sir  Percival 
had  started  on  his  journey. 

"  Where  is  he  going  to,  Marian?"  Laura  whispered. 
"  Every  fresh  thing  he  does  seems  to  terrify  me  about  the 
future.     Have  you  any  suspicions?" 

After  what  she  had  undergone  that  morning,  I  was  un- 
willing to  tell  her  my  suspicions. 

"  How  should  I  know  his  secrets?"  I  said,  evasively. 

'*  I  wonder  if  the  housekeeper  knows?"  she  persisted. 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  replied.  "  She  must  be  quite  as 
ignorant  as  we  are.*' 

Laura  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"  Did  you  not  hear  from  the  housekeeper  that  there  was 
a  report  of  Anne  Catherick  having  been  seen  in  this  neigh- 
borhood? Don't  you  think  he  may  have  gone  away  to  look 
for  her?" 

"  I  would  rather  compose  myself,  Laura,  by  not  think- 
ing about  it  at  all;  and,  after  what  has  happened,  you  had 
better  follow  my  example.  Come  into  my  room,  and  rest 
and  quiet  yourself  a  little." 

We  sat  down  together  close  to  the  window,  and  let  the 
fi-agraut  summer  air  breathe  over  our  facee» 


TtTE    WOMAK    IN"    WRITE.  243 

'*  I  am  ashamed  to  look  at  you,  Maiiiin,"  she  said, 
"  after  what  you  submitted  to  dovvii-stairs  for  my  sake. 
Oh,  my  own  love,  I  am  almost  heart-broken  when  I  think 
of  it!    But  1  will  try  to  make  it  up  to  vou — I  will  indeed!" 

"Hush!  hush!"  I  replied;  "don't  talk  so.  VVhat  is 
the  trifling  mortification  of  my  pride  compared  to  the 
dreadful  sacrifice  of  your  happiness?" 

"  You  heard  what  he  said  to  me?"  she  went  on,  quickly 
and  vehemently.  '"'  You  heard  the  words — but  you  don't 
know  what  they  meant — you  don't  know  why  I  threw  down 
the  pen  and  turned  my  back  on  him."  She  rose  in  sudden 
agitation,  and  walked  about  the  room.  "  I  have  kept 
many  things  from  your  knowledge,  Marian,  for  fear  of  dis- 
tressing you,  and  making  you  unhappy  at  the  outset  of  our 
new  lives.  You  don't  know  how  he  has  used  me.  And 
yet  you  ought  to  know,  for  you  saw  how  he  used  me  to- 
day. You  heard  him  sneer  at  my  presuming  to  be  scrupu- 
lous; you  heard  him  say  I  had  made  a  virtue  of  necessity 
in  marrying  him."  She  sat  down  again;  her  face  flushed 
deeply,  and  her  hands  twisted  and  twined  together  in  her 
lap.  "  I  can't  tell  you  about  it  now,"  she  said;  "  I  shall 
burst  out  crying  if  I  tell  you  now — later,  Marian,  when  1 
am  more  sure  of  myself.  My  poor  head  aches,  darling — 
aches,  aches,  aches!  Where  is  your  smelling-bottle?  Let 
me  talk  to  you  about  yourself.  1  wish  I  had  given  him  my 
signature,  for  your  sake.  Shall  I  give  it  to  him  to-mor- 
row? I  would  rather  compromise  myself  than  compromise 
you.  After  your  taking  my  part  against  him,  he  will  lay 
all  the  blame  on  you,  if  I  refuse  again.  VVhat  shall  we 
do?  Oh,  for  a  friend  to  help  us  and  advise  us! — a  friend 
we  could  really  trust!" 

She  sighed  bitterly.  I  saw  in  her  face  that  she  was 
thinking  of  Hartright — saw  it  the  more  plainly  because 
her  last  words  set  me  thinking  of  him  too.  In  six  months 
only  from  her  marriage,  we  wanted  the  faithful  service  he 
had  offered  to  us  in  his  farewell  words.  How  little  I  once 
thought  that  we  should  ever  want  it  at  all! 

"  We  must  do  what  we  can  to  help  ourselves,"  1  said. 
"  Let  us  try  to  talk  it  over  calmly,  Laura — let  us  do  all  in 
our  power  to  decide  for  the  best." 

Putting  what  she  knew  of  her  husband's  embarrasjunents, 
and  what  I  had  heard  of  his  conversation  with  the  lawyer, 
together,  we  arrived  necessarily  at  the  conclusion  that  tlia 


244  THE    WO^fAlsr    TN    WHITE. 

parchment  iu  Mie  library  had  been  drawn  up  for  the  pur- 
pose of  borrowing  money,  and  tha  Laura's  signature  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  fit  it  for  the  attainment  of  Sir  Per- 
cival's  object. 

The  second  question,  concerning  the  nature  of  the  legal 
contract  by  which  the  money  was  to  be  obtained,  and  the 
iegree  of  personal  responsibility  to  which  Laura  might  sub- 
ject herself  if  she  signed  it  in  the  dark,  involved  considera- 
tions which  lay  far  beyond  any  knowledge  and  experience 
that  either  of  us  possessed.  My  own  convictions  led  me  to 
believe  that  the  hidden  contents  of  the  parchment  con- 
cealed a  transaction  of  the  mejiiiest  and  the  most  fraud u- 
lent  kind. 

1  had  not  formed  this  conclusion  in  consequence  of  Sir 
Percival's  refusal  to  show  the  writing,  or  to  explain  it;  for 
that  refusal  might  well  have  proceeded  from  his  obstinate 
disposition  and  his  domineering  temper  alone.  My  sole 
motive  for  distrusting  his  honesty  sprung  from  the  change 
which  1  had  observed  in  his  language  and  his  manners  at 
Blackwater  Park,  a  change  which  convinced  me  that  he 
had  been  acting  a  part  through  out  the  whole  period  of  his 
probation  at  Limmeridge  House.  His  elaborate  delicacy; 
his  ceremonious  politeness,  which  harmonized  so  agreeably 
with  Mr.  Gilmore's  old-fashioned  notions;  his  modesty 
with  Laura,  his  candor  with  me,  his  moderation  with  Mr. 
Fairlie — all  these  were  the  artifices  of  a  mean,  cunning,  and 
brutal  man,  who  had  dropped  his  disguise  when  his  prac- 
ticed duplicity  had  gained  its  end,  and  had  openly  shown 
himself  in  the  library  on  that  very  day.  I  say  nothing  of 
the  grief  which  this  discovery  caused  me  on  Laura's  ac- 
count, for  it  is  not  to  be  expressed  by  any  words  of  mine. 
I  only  refer  to  it  at  all,  because  it  decided  me  to  oppose 
ner  signing  the  parchment,  whatever  the  consequences 
might  be,  unless  she  was  first  made  acquainted  with  the 
contents. 

Under  these  circumstances,  the  one  chance  for  us  when 
to-morrow  came,  was  to  be  provided  with  an  objection  to 
giving  the  signature,  which  might  rest  on  sufficiently  firtu 
commercial  or  legal  grounds  to  shake  Sir  Percival's  reso- 
lution, and  to  make  him  suspect  that  we  two  women  under- 
stood the  laws  and  obligations  of  business  as  well  as  him- 
self. 

After  some  pondering,  1  determined  to  write  to  the  only 


THK     AVOMAN    IN     WHITE.  '245 

honest  man  within  reacli  whom  we  could  trust  to  help  us 
discreetly,  in  our  forlorn  situation.  That  man  was  Mr. 
Gilmore's  partner — Mr.  Kyrle — who  conducted  the  busi- 
ness, now  that  our  old  friend  hud  been  obliged  to  withdraw 
from  it,  and  to  leave  London  on  account  of  liis  health. 
I  explained  to  Laura  that  I  had  Mr.  Gilmore's  own  author- 
ity for  placing  implicit  confidence  in  his  partner's  integrity, 
discretion,  and  accurate  knowledge  of  all  her  affairs;  and. 
with  her  full  approval,  1  sat  down  at  once  to  write  the 
letter. 

I  began  by  stating  our  position  to  Mr.  Kyrle  exactly  as 
it  was;  and  then  asked  for  his  advice  in  return,  expressed 
in  plain,  downright  terms  which  he  could  comprehend 
without  any  danger  of  misinterpretations  and  mistakes. 
My  letter  was  as  short  as  1  could  possibly  niake  if,  and  was, 
I  hope,  unincumbered  by  needless  apologies  and  needless 
details. 

Just  as  1  was  about  to  put  the  address  on  the  envelope, 
an  obstacle  was  discovered  by  Laura,  which,  in  the  effort 
and  preoccupation  of  writi:'i,-T,  had  escaped  my  mind  alto- 
gether. 

"  How  are  we  to  get  the  answer  in  time?"  she  asked. 
"  Your  letter  will  not  be  delivered  in  London  before  to- 
morrow morning;  and  the  post  will  not  bring  the  reply 
here  till  the  morning  after." 

The  only  way  of  overcoming  this  difficulty  was  to  have 
the  answer  brought  to  us  from  the  lawyer's  office  by  a 
special  messenger.  I  wrote  a  postscript  to  that  effect,  beg- 
ging that  the  messenger  might  be  dispatched  with  the  reply 
by  the  eleven  o'clock  morning  train,  which  would  bring  him 
to  our  station  at  twenty  minutes  past  one,  and  so  enable 
him  to  reach  Blackwater  Park  by  two  o'clock  at  the  latest. 
He  was  to  be  directed  to  ask  for  me,  to  answer  no  questions 
addressed  to  him  by  any  one  else,  and  to  deliver  his  letter 
into  no  hands  but  mine. 

"  In  case  Sir  Percival  should  come  back  to-morrow  before 
two  o'clock,"  1  said  to  Laura,  "  the  wisest  plan  for  you  to 
adopt  is  to  be  out  in  the  grounds  all  the  morning,  with 
your  book  or  your  work,  and  not  to  appear  at  the  house 
till  the  messenger  has  had  time  to  arrive  with  the  letter. 
I  will  wait  here  for  him  all  the  morning,  to  guard  against 
any  misadventures  or  mistakes.  By  following  this  arrange^ 
ment,  I  hope  and  believe  we  shall  avoid  being  taken  by  sur- 


246  THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

prise.  Let  us  go  down  to  the  drawing-room  now.  Wg 
may  excite  suspicion  if  we  remain  shut  up  together  too 
long." 

"  Suspicion?"  she  repeated.  "  Whose  suspicion  can  we 
excite,  now  that  Sir  Percival  has  left  the  house?  Do  you 
mean  Count  Fosco?" 

"  Perhaps  I  do,  Laura." 

"  You  are  beginning  to  dislike  him  as  much  as  I  do. 
Marian." 

"  No;  not  to  dislike  him.  Dislike  is  always  more  or  less, 
associated  with  contempt — I  can  see  nothing  in  the  Count 
to  despise. " 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  him,  are  you?" 

*'  Perhaps  1  am  — a  little." 

*'  Afraid  of  him,  after  his  interference  in  our  favor  to- 
day?" 

"  Yes.  lam  more  afraid  of  his  interference  than  1  am 
of  Sir  Percival's  violence.  Eemember  what  J  said  to  you 
in  the  library.  Whatever  you  do,  Laura,  don't  make  an 
enemy  of  the  Count!" 

We  went  down-stairs.  Laura  entered  the  drawing-room; 
while  I  proceeded  across  the  hall,  with  my  letter  in  my 
hand,  to  put  it  in  the  post-bag,  which  hung  against  the 
wail  opposite  to  me. 

The  house  door  was  open;  and,  as  I  crossed  past  it,  T 
SUA'  Count  Fosco  and  his  wife  standing  talking  together 
on  the  steps  outside,  with  their  faces  turned  toward  me. 

The  Countess  came  into  the  hall  rather  hastily,  and  asked 
if  1  had  leisure  enough  for  five  minutes'  private  conversa- 
tion. Feeling  a  little  surprised  by  such  an  appeal  from 
such  a  person,  I  put  my  letter  into  the  bag,  and  replied 
that  I  was  quite  at  her  disposal.  She  took  my  arm  with 
unaccustomed  friendliness  and  familiarity;  and  instead  of 
leading  me  into  an  empty  room,  drew  me  out  with  her  to 
the  belt  of  turf  which  surrounded  the  large  fish-jDoud. 

As  we  passed  the  Count  on  the  steps,  he  bowed  and 
smiled,  and  then  went  at  once  into  the  house,  pushing  the 
hall  door  to  after  him,  but  not  actually  closing  it. 

The  Countess  walked  me  gently  round  the  fish-pond.  I 
expected  to  be  made  the  depository  of  some  extraordinary 
confidence;  and  1  was  astonished  to  find  that  Mine.  Fosco's 
communication  for  my  private  ear  was  nothing  more  tha'.i 
a  polite  assurance  of  her  sympathy  for  me,  after  what  had 


THE    WOMAN-    IN    WHITE.  24? 

happened  in  the  library.  Her  husband  had  told  her  of  all 
that  had  passed,  and  of  the  insolent  manner  in  which  8ir 
Percival  had  spoken  to  me.  This  information  had  so 
shocked  and  distressed  her,  on  my  account  and  on  Laura's, 
that  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  if  anything  of  the  sort 
happened  again,  to  mark  her  sense  of  Sir  Percival's  out- 
rageous conduct  by  leaving  the  house.  The  Count  had 
approved  ot  her  idea,  and  she  now  honed  that  I  approved 
of  it  too. 

I  thought  this  a  very  strange  proceeding  on  the  part  of 
such  a  remarkably  reserved  woman  as  Mme.  Fosco — es- 
pecially after  the  interchange  of  sharp  speeches  which  had 
passed  between  us  during  the  conversation  in  the  boat- 
house  on  that  very  morning.  However,  it  was  my  plam 
duty  to  meet  a  polite  and  friendly  advance,  on  the  part  of 
one  of  my  elders,  with  a  polite  and  friendly  reply.  1  an- 
swered the  Countess,  accordingly,  in  her  own  tone;  and 
then,  thinking  we  had  said  all  that  was  necessary  on  either 
side,  made  an  attempt  to  get  back  to  the  house. 

But  Mme.  Fosco  seemed  resolved  not  to  part  with  me, 
and,  to  my  unspeakable  amazement,  resolved  also  to  talk. 
Hitherto  the  most  silent  of  women,  she  now  persecuted  me 
with  fluent  conventionalities  on  the  subject  of  married 
life,  on  the  subject  of  Sir  Percival  and  Laura,  on  the 
subject  of  her  own  happiness,  on  the  subject  of  the  late 
Mr.  Fairlie's  conduct  to  her  in  the  matter  of  her  legacy, 
and  on  half  a  dozen  other  subjects  besides,  until  she  had. 
detained  me  walking  round  and  round  the  fish-pond  for 
more  than  half  an  hour,  and  had  quite  wearied  me  out. 
Whether  she  discovered  this  or  not  1  can  not  say,  but  she 
stopped  as  abruptly  as  she  had  begun — looked  toward  the 
house  door,  i-esumed  her  icy  manner  in  a  moment — and 
dropped  my  arm  of  her  own  accord,  before  1  could  think 
of  an  excuse  for  accomplishing  my  own  release  from  her. 

As  I  pushed  open  the  door  and  entered  the  hall,  1  found 
myself  suddenly  face  to  face  with  the  Count  again.  He 
was  just  putting  a  letter  into  the  post-bag. 

After  he  had  dropped  it  in,  and  had  closed  the  bag,  he 
asked  me  where  I  had  left  Mme.  Fosco.  1  told  him;  and 
he  went  out  at  the  hall  door  immediately,  to  join  his 
wife.  His  manner,  when  he  spoke  to  me,  was  so  unusu- 
ally quiet  and  subdued  that  I  turned  and  looked  after  him, 
wondering  if  he  were  ill  or  out  of  spirits. 


248  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Why  my  next  proceeding  was  to  go  straight  to  the  post- 
bag,  and  take  out  my  own  letter,  and  look  at  it  again, 
with  a  vague  distrust  on  me;  and  why  the  looking  at  it 
for  the  second  time  instantly  suggested  the  idea  to  my 
mind  of  sealing  the  envelope  for  its  greater  security — are 
mysteries  which  are  either  too  deep  or  too  shallow  for  me 
to  fathom.  Women,  as  everybody  knows,  constantly  act  on 
impulses  which  they  can  not  explain  even  to  themselves; 
and  I  can  only  suppose  that  one  of  those  impulses  was  the 
hidden  cause  of  my  unaccountable  conduct  on  this  occasion. 

W^hatever  influence  animated  me,  I  found  cause  to 
congratulate  myself  on  having  obeyed  it  as  soon  as  I  pre- 
pared to  seal  the  letter  in  my  own  room.  1  had  originally 
closed  the  envelope  in  the  usual  way,  by  moistening  the 
adhesive  point  and  pressing  it  on  the  paper  beneath;  and 
when  I  now  tried  it  with  my  finger,  after  a  lapse  of  full 
three  quarters  of  an  hour,  the  envelope  opened  on  the 
instant  without  sticking  or  tearing.  Perhaps  I  had  fast- 
ened it  insufficiently?  Perhaps  there  might  have  been 
?ome  defect  in  the  adhesive  gum? 

Or,  perhaps —  No!  it  is  quite  revolting  enough  to  feel 
that  third  conjecture  stirring  in  my  mind.  I  would  rather 
not  see  it  confronting  me,  in  plain  black  and  white. 

1  almost  dread  to-morrow — so  much  depends  on  my  dis- 
cretion and  self-control.  There  are  two  precautions,  at  all 
events,  which  1  am  sure  not  to  forget.  I  must  be  careful 
to  keep  up  friendly  appearances  with  the  Count;  and  1 
must  be  well  on  my  guard  when  the  messenger  from  the 
oflSice  comes  here  with  the  answer  to  my  letter. 


V. 

June  17th. — When  the  dinner  hour  brought  us  together 
again.  Count  Fosco  was  in  his  usual  excellent  spirits.  He 
exerted  himself  to  interest  and  amuse  us,  as  if  he  was  de- 
termined to  efface  from  our  memories  all  recollection  of 
what  had  passed  in  the  library  that  afternoon.  Lively  de- 
scriptions of  his  adventures  in  traveling;  amusing  anecdotes 
of  remarkable  people  whom  he  had  met  with  abroad; 
quaint  comparisons  between  the  social  customs  of  various 
nations,  illustrated  by  examples  drawn  from  men  and 
women  indiscriminately  all  over  Europe;  humorous  con- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  249 

fessions  of  the  innocent  follies  of  his  own  early  life,  when 
he  ruled  the  fashions  of  a  second-rate  Italian  town,  atid 
wrote  preposterous  romauces,  on  the  French  model,  for  a 
second-rate  Italian  newspaper — all  flowed  in  succession  so 
easily  and  so  gayly  from  his  lips,  and  all  addressed  our 
various  curiosities  and  various  interests  so  directly  and  so 
delicately,  that  Laura  and  1  listened  to  him  with  as  much 
attention,  and,  inconsistent  as  it  may  seem,  with  as  much 
admiration  also,  as  Mme.  Fosco  herself.  Women  can 
resist  a  man's  love,  a  man's  fame,  a  man's  personal  ap- 
pearance, and  a  man's  money;  but  they  can  not  resist  a 
man's  tongue,  when  he  knows  how  to  talk  to  them. 

After  dinner,  while  the  favorable  impression  which  he 
had  produced  on  us  was  still  vivid  in  our  minds,  the  Count 
modestly  withdrew  to  read  in  the  library. 

Laura  proposed  a  stroll  in  the  grounds  to  enjoy  the  close 
of  the  long  evening.  It  was  necessary,  in  common  polite- 
ness, to  ask  Mme.  Fosco  to  join  us;  but  this  time  she  had 
apparently  received  her  orders  beforehand,  and  she  begged 
we  would  kindly  excuse  her.  "  The  Count  will  probably 
want  a  fresh  supply  of  cigarettes,'"'  she  remarked,  by  way 
of  apology;  "  and  nobody  can  make  them  to  his  satisfac- 
tion but  myself."  Her  cold  blue  eyes  almost  warmed  as 
she  spoke  the  words — she  looked  actually  proud  of  being 
the  officiating  medium  through  which  her  lord  and  master 
composed  himself  with  tobacco  smoke! 

Laura  and  I  went  out  together  alone. 

It  was  a  misty,  heavy  evening.  There  was  a  sense  of 
blight  in  the  air;  the  flowers  were  drooping  in  the  garden, 
and  the  ground  was  parched  and  dewless.  The  western 
heaven,  as  we  saw  it  over  the  quiet  trees,  was  of  a  pale 
yellow  hue,  and  the  sun  was  setting  faintly  in  a  haze. 
Coming  rain  seemed  near;  it  would  fall  probably  with  the 
fail  of  night. 

"  Which  way  shall  we  go?"  I  asked. 

"  Toward  the  lake,  Marian,  if  you  like,"  she  answered. 

"  You  seem  unaccountably  fond,  Laura,  of  that  dismal 
lake.'^' 

'*  Xo;  not  of  the  lake,  but  of  the  scenery  aboiit  it.  The 
sand  and  heath  and  the  fir-trees  are  the  only  objects  1  can 
discover,  in  all  this  large  place,  to  remind  me  of  Liinme- 
ridge.  But  we  will  walk  ia  some  other  direction,  if  jou 
prefer  it. " 


250  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

•'  I  have  no  favorite  walks  at  Black  water  Park,  my 
love.  Oae  is  the  same  as  another  to  me.  Let  us  go  ta 
the  lake — we  may  find  it  cooler  in  the  open  space  than 
«re  find  it  here.^' 

We  walked  through  the  shadow}'  plantation  in  silence. 
The  heaviness  in  the  evening  air  oppressed  us  both;  and 
when  we  reached  the  boat-house  we  were  glad  to  sit  down 
and  rest  inside. 

A  white  fog  hung  low  over  the  lake.  The  dense  brown  line 
of  the  trees  on  the  opposite  bank  appeared  above  it,  like  a 
dwarf  forest  floating  in  the  sky.  The  sandy  ground,  shelv- 
ing downward  from  where  we  sat,  was  lost  mysteriously  in 
the  outward  layers  of  the  fog.  The  silence  was  horrible. 
No  rustling  of  the  leaves — no  bird's  note  in  the  wood— no 
cry  of  water-fowl  from  the  pools  of  the  hidden  lake.  Even 
the  croaking  of  the  frogs  had  ceased  to-night. 

"  It  is  very  desolate  and  gloomy,"  said  Laura.  "  But 
we  can  be  more  alone  here  than  anywhere  else." 

She  spoke  quietly,  and  looked  at  the  wilderness  of  sand 
and  mist  with  steady,  thoughtful  eyes.  I  could  see  that 
her  mind  was  too  much  occupied  to  feel  the  dreary  im- 
pressions from  without,  which  had  fastened  themselves 
already  on  mine. 

"  1  promised,  Marian,  to  tell  you  the  truth  about  my 
married  life,  instead  of  leaving  you  any  longer  to  guess  it 
for  yourself,"  she  began.  "  That  secret  is  the  first  I  have 
ever  had  from  you,  love,  and  I  am  determined  it  shall  be 
the  last.  I  was  silent,  as  you  know,  for  your  sake — and 
perhaps  a  little  for  my  own  sake  as  well.  It  is  very  hard 
for  a  woman  to  confess  that  the  man  to  whom  she  has 
given  her  whole  life  is  the  man,  of  all  others,  who  cares 
the  least  for  the  gift.  If  you  were  married  yourself, 
Marian — and  especially  if  you  were  happily  married— you 
would  feel  for  me  as  no  single  woman  can  feel,  however 
kind  and  true  she  may  be." 

What  answer  could  I  make?  1  could  only  take  her  hand; 
and  look  at  her  with  my  whole  heart  as  well  as  my  eyes 
would  let  me. 

"  Ilow  often,"  she  went  on,  "  I  have  heard  you  laugh- 
ing over  what  you  used  to  call  your  '  poverty!'  how  often 
you  have  niaJe  me  inock-speeches  of  congratulation  on  my 
wealth!     Oh,  Marian,  rmvar  laugh  again.     Thank  God  for 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  251 

your  poverty — it  has  made  you  your  own  mistress,  and  has 
saved  you  from  the  lot  that  has  fallen  on  me." 

A  sad  begiuuiiig  on  the  lips  of  a  young  wife! — sad  in  its 
quiet,  plain- spoken  truth.  The  few  days  we  had  passed 
together  at  Blackvvater  Park  had  been  many  enough  to 
show  me — to  show  any  one — what  her  husband  had  mar- 
ried her  for. 

"  You  shall  not  be  distressed,"  she  said,  "  by  hearing 
how  soon  my  disappointments  and  my  trials  began — or  even 
by  knowing  what  they  were.  It  is  bad  enough  to  have 
them  on  my  memory.  If  I  tell  you  how  he  received  the 
first,  and  last,  attempt  at  remonstrance  that  1  ever  made, 
you  will  know  how  he  has  always  treated  me,  as  well  as  if 
I  had  described  it  in  so  many  words.  It  was  one  day  at 
Eome,  when  we  had  ridden  out  together  to  the  tomb  of 
Cecilia  Metella.  The  sky  was  calm  and  lovely — and  the 
grand  old  ruin  looked  beautiful — and  the  remembrance 
that  a  husband's  love  had  raised  it  in  the  old  time  to  a 
wife's  memory,  and  made  me  feel  more  tenderly  and  more 
anxiously  toward  my  husband  than  I  had  ever  felt  yet. 
'  Would  you  build  such  a  tomb  for  me,  Percival?'  I  asked 
him.  '  You  said  you  loved  me  dearly,  before  we  were 
married;  and  yet,  since  that  time — '  I  could  get  no  fur- 
ther. Marian!  he  was  not  even  looking  at  me!  I  pulled 
down  my  veil,  thinking  it  best  not  to  let  him  see  that  the 
tears  were  in  my  eyes.  I  fancied  he  had  not  paid  any  at- 
tention to  me;  but  he  had.  He  said,  '  Come  away,'  and 
laughed  to  himself  as  he  helped  me  on  to  my  horse.  He 
mounted  his  own  horse,  and  laughed  again  as  we  vode 
away.  '  If  1  do  build  you  a  tomb,'  he  said,  '  it  will  be 
done  with  your  own  money,  I  wonder  whether  Cecilia 
Metella  had  a  fortune,  and  paid  for  hers.'  I  made  no  reply 
— how  could  I,  when  1  was  crying  behind  my  veil?  '  Ah, 
you  light-complexioned  women  are  all  sulky,'  he  said. 
'  What  do  you  want?  compliments  and  soft  speeches? 
Well!  I'm  in  a  good  humor  this  morning.  Consider  the 
compliments  paid,  and  the  speeches  said.'  Men  little 
know,  when  they  say  hard  things  to  us,  how  well  we  re- 
member them,  and  how  much  harm  they  do  us.  It  would 
have  been  better  for  me  if  I  had  gone  on  crying;  but  his 
contempt  dried  up  my  tears,  and  hardened  my  heart. 
From  that  time,  Marian,  I  never  checked  myself  again  in 
thinking  of  Walter  Hartrieht.     I  let  the  memory  of  those 


25 'i  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVHITE. 

happy  days,  when  we  were  so  fond  of  each  other  in  secret, 
come  back  and  comfort  me.  What  else  had  I  to  look  to  for 
consolation?  If  we  had  been  together,  you  would  have 
helped  me  to  better  things.  I  know  it  was  wrong,  darling 
— but  tell  me  if  I  was  wrong,  without  any  excusfe." 

I  was  obliged  to  turn  my  face  from  her.  "  Don't  ask 
me!"  I  said.  "  Have  1  suffered  as  you  have  sufferedF 
What  right  have  1  to  decide?" 

"I  used  to  think  of  him,"  she  pursued,  dropping  her 
voice,  and  moving  closer  to  me — "  I  used  to  think  of  him, 
when  Percival  left  me  alone  at  night,  to  go  among  the 
Opera  people.  I  used  to  fancy  what  I  might  have  been,  if 
it  had  pleased  God  to  bless  me  with  poverty,  and  if  I  had 
been  his  wife.  1  used  to  see  myself  in  my  neat  cheap 
gown,  sitting  at  home  and  waiting  for  him,  while  he  was 
earning  our  bread — sitting  at  home  and  working  for  him, 
and  loving  him  all  the  better  because  1  luid  to  work  for  him 
— seeing  him  come  in  tired,  and  taking  off  his  hat  and  coat 
for  him — and,  Marian,  pleasing  him  with  little  dishes  at 
dinner  that  1  had  learned  to  make  for  his  sake.  Oh!  I  hope 
he  is  never  lonely  enough  and  sad  enough  to  think  of  me 
and  see  me,  as  I  have  thought  of  J/ini  aud  seen  him  !"' 

As  she  said  those  melancholy  words,  all  the  lost  tender- 
ness returned  to  her  voice,  and  all  the  lost  beauty  trembled 
back  into  her  face.  Her  eyes  rested  as  lovingly  on  the 
blighted,  solitary,  ill-omened  view  before  us,  as  if  they  saw 
the  friendly  hills  of  Cumberland  in  the  dim  and  threaten- 
ing sky. 

"  Don't  speak  of  Walter  any  more,"  1  said,  as  soon  as 
I  could  control  myself.  "  Oh,  Laura,  spare  us  both  the 
wretchedness  of  talking  of  him,  now." 

She  roused  herself,  and  looked  at  me  tenderly. 

"  I  would  rather  be  silent  about  him  forever,'*  she  an 
swered,  "  than  cause  you  a  moment's  pain." 

"  It  is  in  your  interests,"  1  plfaded;  "  it  is  for  your  sake 
that  I  speak.     If  your  husband  heard  you — " 

"  It  would  not  surprise  him,  if  he  did  hear  me.'* 

She  made  that  strange  reply  with  a  weary  calmness  and 
coldness.  The  change  in  her  maimer,  when  she  gave  the 
answer,  startled  me  almost  as  much*  as  the  answer  itself. 

"  Not  surprise  him!"  I  repeattV  "  Laura!  remember 
what  you  are  saying — you  frighter  me!" 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said—"  it  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell  ycu 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  '253 

to-day,  when  we  were  talking  in  your  room.  My  only 
secret,  when  I  opened  ray  heart  to  him  at  Linimeridgo,  was 
a  harmless  secret,  Marian — you  said  so  yonrself.  Tlie 
name  was  all  I  kept  from  him — and  he  has  discovered  it." 

1  heard  lier;  but  I  could  say  noLhnig.  Her  last  words 
had  killed  the  little  hope  that  still  lived  in  me. 

"  It  happened  at  liome,^^  she  went  on,  as  wearily  calm 
and  cold  as  ever.  "  We  were  at  a  little  party,  given  tc 
the  English  by  som3  friends  of  Sir  Percival's — Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Markland.  Mrs.  Markland  had  the  reputation  of 
sketching  very  beautifully ;  and  some  of  the  guests  preva  led 
on  her  to  show  us  her  drawings.  We  all  admired  them — 
but  something  1  said  attracted  her  attention  particularly  to 
me.  '  Surely  you  draw  yourself?'  she  asked.  '  I  used  to 
draw  a  little  once,'  I  answered,  '  but  1  have  given  it  up,' 
*  If  you  have  once  drawn,'  sh?  said,  '  you  may  take  to  it 
again  one  of  these  days;  and,  if  you  do,  I  wish  you  would 
let  me  recommend  you  a  master.'  I  said  nothing — you 
know  why,  Marian — and  tried  to  change  the  conversation. 
But  Mrs.  Markland  persisted.  '  I  have  had  all  sorts  of 
teachers,'  she  went  on;  '  but  the  best  of  all,  the  most  in- 
telligent and  the  most  attentive,  was  a  Mr.  Hartright.  If 
you  ever  take  up  your  drawing  again,  do  try  him  as  a  mas- 
ter. He  is  a  young  man — modest  and  gentleman-like — 1 
am  sure  you  will  like  him.'  Think  of  those  words  being 
spoken  to  me  publicly,  in  the  presence  of  strangers — 
strangers  who  had  been  invited  to  meet  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom! I  did  all  I  could  to  control  myself — I  said  nothing, 
and  looked  down  close  at  the  drawings.  When  I  ventured 
to  raise  my  head  again,  my  eyes  and  my  husband's  eyes 
met;  and  I  knew,  by  his  look,  that  my  face  had  betrayed 
me.  '  We  will  see  about  Mr.  Hartright,'  he  said,  looking 
at  me  all  the  time,  '  when  we  get  back  to  England.  I 
agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Markland — I  think  Lady  Glyde  is 
sure  to  like  him.'  H3  laid  an  emphasis  on  the  last  words 
which  made  my  cheeks  burn,  and  set  my  heart  beating  as 
if  it  would  stifle  me.  Nothing  more  was  said — we  came 
away  early.  He  was  silent  in  the  carriage,  driving  back 
to  the  hotel.  He  helped  me  out,  and  followed  me  upstfiirs 
as  usual.  But  the  moment  we  were  in  the  drawing-voom, 
he  locked  the  door,  pushed  me  down  into  a  chair,  and 
stood  over  me  with  his  hnnds  on  my  shoulder.  '  Evei 
since  that  morning  when  you  made  your  audacious  coufe& 


^54  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

sioii  to  me  at  Limmeridge,'  he  said,  '  I  have  wanted  to  find 
out  the  man;  and  I  found  him  in  your  face  to-night.  Your 
drawing-master  was  the  man;  and  his  name  is  ilartiigbt. 
You  shall  repent  it,  and  he  shall  repeat  it,  to  the  last  hour 
pf  your  lives.  Now  go  to  bed,  and  dream  of  him,  if  you 
like — with  the  marks  of  my  horsewhip  on  his  shoulders/ 
Whenever  he  is  angry  with  me  now,  he  refers  to  what  1  ac- 
knowledged to  him  in  your  presence,  with  a  sneer  or  a 
threat.  I  have  no  power  to  prevent  him  from  putting  his 
own  horrible  construction  on  the  confidence  1  placed  in 
him.  1  have  no  influence  to  make  him  believe  me,  or  to 
keep  him  silent.  You  looked  surprised,  to-day,  when  you 
heard  him  tell  me  that  I  had  made  a  virtue  of  necessity  in 
marrying  him.  You  will  not  be  surprised  again,  wheu 
you  hear  him  repeat  it,  the  next  time  he  is  out  of  temper. 
Oil,  Marian!  don't!  don't!  you  hurt  me!" 

I  had  caught  her  in  my  arms;  and  the  sting  and  torment 
of  my  remorse  had  closed  them  round  her  like  a  vise. 
Y^'es!  my  remorse.  The  white  despair  of  Walter's  face, 
when  my  cruel  words  struck  him  to  the  heart  in  the  sum- 
mer-house at  Limmeridge,  rose  before  me  in  mute,  unen- 
durable reproach.  My  hand  had  pointed  the  way  which 
led  the  man  my  sister  loved,  step  by  step,  far  from  his 
country  and  his  friends.  Between  those  two  young  hearts 
I  had  stood,  to  sunder  them  forever,  the  one  from  the 
other — and  his  life  and  her  life  lay  wasted  before  me,  alike, 
in  witness  of  the  deed.  1  had  done  this;  and  done  it  for 
Sir  Peroival  Glyde. 

For  Sir  Percival  Glyde. 

I  heard  her  speaking,  and  I  knew  by  the  tone  of  he> 
voice  that  she  was  comforting  me — 1,  who  deserved  nothing 
but  the  reproach  of  her  silence!  How  long  it  was  before  1 
mastered  the  absorbing  misery  of  my  own  thoughts,  I  can 
not  tell.  1  was  first  conscious  that  she  was  kissing  me; 
and  then  my  eyes  seemed  to  wake  on  a  sudden  to  their 
sense  of  outward  things,  and  I  knew  that  1  was  looking 
mechanically  straight  before  me  at  the  prospect  of  the 
lake. 

"  It  is  late,"  I  heard  her  whisper.  "  It  will  be  dark  in 
the  plantation.'^  She  shook  my  arm,  and  repeated, 
"  Marian!  it  will  be  dark  in  the  plantation.'* 


THE    WOMA^r    TN    WHITE.  25A 

"  Give  me  a  minute  lopgyr,"  1  said — "  a  minute,  to  get 
better  in. " 

I  was  afraid  to  trusL  myself  to  look  at  her  yet;  and  1 
kept  my  eyes  lixed  on  the  view. 

It  ivas  late.  The  dense  brown  line  of  trees  in  the  sky 
had  faded  in  the  gathering  darkness,  to  the  faint  resem- 
blance of  a  long  wreath  of  smoke.  The  mist  over  the  lake 
below  had  stealthily  enlarged,  and  advanced  on  us.  The 
silence  was  as  breathless  as  ever — but  the  horror  of  it  had 
gone,  and  the  solemn  mystery  of  its  stillness  was  all  that 
remained. 

"  We  are  far  from  the  house,"  she  whispered.  *'  Let 
us  go  back.^* 

She  stopped  suddenly,  and  turned  her  face  from  me  to- 
ward the  entrance  of  the  boat-house. 

"Marian!"  she  said,  tremblmg  violently.  "Do  you 
see  nothing?    Look!" 

"  Where?" 

"  Down  there,  below  us." 

She  pointed.   My  eyes  followed  her  hand;  and  I  saw  it  too. 

A  living  figure  was  moving  over  the  waste  of  heath  m 
the  distance.  It  crossed  our  range  of  view  from  the  boat- 
house,  and  passed  darkly  along  the  outer  edge  of  the  mist. 
It  stopped  far  off,  in  front  of  us — waited — and  passed  on; 
moving  slowly;  with  the  white  cloud  of  mist  behind  it  and 
above  it — slowly,  slowly,  till  it  glided  by  the  edge  of  the 
boat-house,  and  we  saw  it  no  more. 

We  were  both  unnerved  by  what  had  passed  between  us 
that  evening.  Some  minutes  had  elapsed  before  Laura 
could  venture  into  the  plantation,  and  before  I  could  make 
up  my  mind  to  lead  her  back  to  the  house. 

"  Was  it  a  man  or  a  woman?"  she  asked,  in  a  whisper, 
as  we  moved,  at  last,  into  the  dark  dampness  of  the  outer 
air. 

"  I  am  not  certain." 

"  Which  do  you  think?" 

"  It  looked  like  a  woman." 

"  I  was  afraid  it  was  a  man  in  a  long  cloak." 

*'  It  may  be  a  man.  In  this  dim  light  it  is  not  possible 
to  be  certain." 

"Wait,  Marian!  I'm  frightened — I  don't  see  the  path. 
Suppose  the  figure  should  follow  us?" 

"  Not  at  ail  likely^  Laura.     There  is  really  nothing  to 


856  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

be  alarmed  about.  The  shores  of  the  lake  are  not  far  from 
the  village,  aud  they  are  free  to  any  one  to  walk  on,  bf 
day  or  night.  It  is  only  wonderful  we  have  seen  no  living 
creature  there  before." 

We  were  now  in  the  plantation.  It  was  very  dark — so 
dark  that  we  found  some  difficulty  in  keeping  the  path. 
I  gave  Laura  my  arm,  and  we  walked  as  fast  as  we  could  ot 
our  way  back. 

Before  we  were  half-way  through  she  stopped,  and  forced 
me  to  stop  with  her.     She  was  listening. 

"  Hush,"  she  whispered.  "  I  hear  something  behind 
us.'' 

•'  Dead  leaves/*  I  said,  to  cheer  her,  "  or  a  twig  blown 
off  the  trees." 

"It  is  summer  time,  Marian;  and  there  is  not  a  breath 
of  wind.     Listen!" 

I  heard  the  sound  too — a  sound  like  a  light  footstep  fol- 
lowing us. 

"  No  matter  who  it  is,  or  what  it  is,"  I  said;  "  let  ci 
walk  on.  In  another  minute,  if  there  is  anything  to  alarm 
us,  we  shall  be  near  enough  to  the  house  to  be  heard." 

We  went  on  quickly— so  quickly  that  Laura  was  breath 
less  by  the  time  sve  were  nearly  through  the  plantation  and 
within  sight  of  the  lighted  windows. 

1  waited  a  moment,  to  give  her  breathing  time.  Just 
as  we  were  about  to  proceed,  she  stojped  me  again,  and 
signed  to  me  with  her  hand  to  listen  once  more.  We  both 
heard  distinctly  a  long,  heavy  sigh  behind  us,  iu  the  black 
depths  of  the  trees. 

"  Who's  there?"  I  called  out. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Who's  there?"  I  repeated. 

An  instant  of  silence  followed;  and  then  we  heard  the 
light  fall  of  the  footsteps  again,  fainter  and  fainter — sink- 
ing away  into  the  darkness — sinking,  sinking,  sinking — till 
they  were  lost  in  the  silence. 

We  hurried  out  from  the  trees  to  the  open  lawn  beyond; 
srossed  it  rapidly;  and,  without  another  word  passing  be- 
tween us,  reached  the  house. 

In  the  light  of  the  hall-lamp  Laura  looked  at  me,  with 
whits  cheeks  and  startled  eyes. 

"  I  am  half  dead  with  fear,"  she  said.  "  Who  could  it 
lave  byun?'"' 


THE    "WOMAN    IN     WHITE.  257 

*'  We  will  try  to  guess  to-morrow,"  1  replied.  "  In  the 
meantime,  say  nothing  to  any  one  of  what  we  have  heard 
and  seen." 

"  Why  not?" 

"  Because  silence  is  safe — and  we  have  need  of  safety  in 
this  house." 

I  sent  Laura  upstairs  immediately — waited  a  minute  to 
take  off  my  hai  aixd  put  my  hair  smooth — and  then  went 
at  once  to  make  my  tirst  investigations  in  the  library,  on 
pretense  of  searching  for  a  book. 

There  sat  the  Count,  filling  out  the  largest  easy-chair  in 
the  house;  smoking  and  reading  calmly,  with  his  feet  on 
an  ottoman,  his  cravat  across  his  knees,  and  his  shirt  collar 
wide  open.  And  there  sat  Mme.  Fosco,  like  a  quiet  child, 
on  a  stool  by  his  side,  makmg  cigarettes.  Neither  husband 
nor  wife  could  by  any  possibility  have  been  out  late  that 
evening,  and  have  just  got  back  to  the  house  in  a  hurry. 
1  felt  that  my  object  in  visiting  the  library  was  answered  the 
moment  1  set  eyes  on  them. 

Count  Fosco  rose  in  polite  confusion,  and  tied  his  cravat 
on  when  I  entered  the  room. 

"  Pray  don't  let  me  disturb  you,"  1  said.  "  1  have  only 
come  here  to  get  a  book." 

"  All  unfortunate  men  of  my  size  suffer  from  the  heat," 
said  the  Count,  refreshing  himself  gravely  with  a  large 
green  fan.  "  I  wish  I  could  change  places  with  my  excel- 
lent wife.  She  is  as  cool  at  this  moment  as  a  fish  in  the 
pond  outside." 

The  Countess  allowed  herself  to  thaw  under  the  influence 
of  her  husband's  quaint  comparison.  "lam  never  warm- 
Miss  Halcombe,"  she  remarked,  with  the  modest  air  of  a 
woman  who  was  confessing  to  one  of  her  own  merits. 

"  Have  you  and  Lady  Glyde  been  out  this  evening?" 
asked  the  Count,  while  1  was  taking  a  book  from  the 
shelves,  to  preserve  appearances. 

"  Yes;  we  went  out  to  get  a  little  air." 

'*  May  1  ask  in  what  direction?'* 

"  In  the  direction  of  the  lake — as  far  as  the  boat-house.'* 

*'  Aha?     As  far  as  the  boat-house?" 

Under  other  circumstances  I  might  have  resented  his 
curiosity.  But  to-night  1  hailed  it  as  another  proof  that 
neither  he  nor  his  wife  were  connected  with  the  mysterious 
appearance  at  the  lake. 


ii5S  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

"  Ko  more  ad  ventures,  I  suppose,  this  evening?"  he 
went  on.  "  No  more  discoveries,  like  your  discovery  of 
the  wounded  dog?" 

He  fixed  his  unfathomable  gray  eyes  on  me,  with  that 
cold,  clear,  irresistible  glitter  in  them  whioh  always  forces 
me  to  look  at  him,  and  always  makes  me  uneasy  while  I 
3o  look.  An  unutterable  suspicion  that  his  mind  is  prying 
into  mine  overcomes  me  at  these  times;  and  it  overcame 
aie  now. 

*'  No,"  Isaid,  shortly;  "  no  ad  ventures — no  discoveries. " 

I  tried  to  look  away  from  him,  and  leave  the  room. 
Strange  as  it  seems,  I  hardly  think  1  should  have  succeeded 
in  the  attempt,  if  Mme.  Fosco  had  not  helped  me  by  caus- 
ing him  to  move  and  look  away  first. 

"  Count,  you  are  keeping  Miss  Halcombe  standing,"  she 
said. 

The  moment  he  turned  round  to  get  me  a  chair,  1  seized 
my  opportunity — thanked  him — made  my  excuses— and 
slipped  out. 

An  hour  later,  when  Laura's  maid  happened  to  be  in  her 
mistress's  room,  I  took  occasion  to  refer  to  the  closeness  of 
the  night,  with  a  view  to  ascertaining  next  how  the  serv- 
ants had  been  passing  their  time. 

"  Have  you  been  suffering  much  from  the  heat,  down- 
stairs?" I  asked. 

"  No,  miss,"  said  the  girl;  "  we  have  not  felt  it  to  speak 
of." 

"  You  have  been  out  in  the  woods,  then,  I  suppose?" 

"  Some  of  us  thought  of  going,  miss.  But  cook  said  she 
should  take  her  chair  into  the  cool  court-yard,  outside  the 
kitchen  door;  and,  on  second  thoughts,  all  the  rest  of  us 
took  our  chairs  out  there  too." 

The  housekeeper  was  now  the  only  person  who  remained 
to  be  accounted  for. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Michelson  gone  to  bed  yet?"  I  inquired. 

*'  I  should  think  not,  miss,"  said  the  girl,  smiling. 
*'  Mrs.  Michelson  is  more  likely  to  be  getting  up,  just 
now,  than  going  to  bed." 

"  Why?  What  do  you  mean?  Has  Mrs.  Michelson 
been  taking  to  her  bed  in  day-time?" 

"  No,  miss;  not  exactly,  but  the  next  thing  to  it.  tihe's 
b»pti  asleep  all  the  evening,  on  the  sofa  in  her  own  room. " 
Pulling  together  whr.!.  1  obset ved  for  myself  in  the  library 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  259 

and  what  1  have  just  heard  from  Laura's  maid,  one  C"»!i' 
elusion  seems  inveitable.  The  figure  we  saw  at  the  lake  was 
not  the  figure  of  Mme.  Fosco,  of  her  husband,  or  of  any  of 
the  servants.  The  footsteps  we  heard  behind  us  were  not 
the  footsteps  of  any  one  belonging  to  the  house. 

Who  could  it  have  been? 

It  seems  useless  to    inquire.      1   can  not  even  decide 
whether  the  figure  was  a  man's  or  a  woman's.     1  caa  onl 
<iay  that  I  think  it  was  a  woman's. 


VI. 

June  IStJi. — The  misery  of  self-reproach  which  I  suffered 
yesterday  evening,  on  heariisg  what  Laura  told  me  in  the 
boat-house,  returned  in  the  loneliness  of  the  night,  and 
kept  me  waking  and  wretched  for  hours. 

I  lighted  my  candle  at  last,  and  searched  through  my 
old  journals  to  see  what  my  share  in  the  fatal  error  of  her 
marriage  had  really  been,  and  what  I  might  have  once  done 
to  save  her  from  it.  The  result  soothed  me  a  little — for  it 
showed  that,  however  blindly  and  ignorantly  I  acted,  1 
acted  for  the  best.  Crying  generally  does  me  harm;  but 
it  was  not  so  last  night — I  think  it  relieved  me.  1  rose  this 
morning  with  a  settled  resolution  and  a  quiet  mind.  Noth- 
ing Sir  Percival  can  say  or  do  shall  ever  irritate  me  again, 
or  make  me  forget,  for  one  moment,  that  1  am  staying 
here,  in  defiance  of  mortifications,  insults,  and  threats,  for 
Laura's  service  and  for  Laura's  sake. 

The  speculations  in  which  we  might  have  indulged,  this 
morning,  on  the  subject  of  the  figure  at  the  lake  and  the 
footsteps  in  the  plantation,  have  been  all  suspended  by  a 
trifiing  accident  which  has  caused  Laura  great  regret.  She 
has  lost  the  little  brooch  I  gave  her  for  a  keepsake,  on  the 
day  before  her  marriage.  As  she  wore  it  when  we  went 
out  yesterday  evenings  we  can  only  suppose  that  it  must 
have  dropped  from  her  dress,  either  in  the  boat-house  or 
on  our  way  back.  The  servants  have  been  sent  to  search, 
and  have  returned  unsuccessful.  And  now  Laura  herself 
has  gone  to  look  for  it.  Whether  she  finds  it  or  not,  the 
loss  will  help  to  excuse  her  absence  from  the  house  if  Sir 
Pcrnival  returns  before  the  letter  fi'om  Mr.  Gilmore'd  part- 
ner js  placed  in  my  hands. 


2(30  THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

One  o'clock  has  just  struck.  I  am  considering  whether 
I  had  better  wait  here  for  the  arrival  of  the  messenger  from 
London,  or  slip  away  quietly,  and  watch  for  him  outside 
the  lodge  gate. 

My  suspicion  of  everybody  and  everything  in  this  house 
inclines  me  to  think  tbat  the  second  plan  may  be  the  best. 
The  Count  is  safe  in  the  breakfast-room.  1  heard  him, 
through  the  door,  as  I  ran  upstairs,  ten  minutes  since,  ex- 
ercising his  canary  birds  at  their  tricks:  "  Come  out  on  my 
little  linger,  my  pret-pret-pretties!  Come  out,  and  hop 
upstairs!  One,  two,  three — and  up!  Three,  two,  one — 
and  down!  One,  two,  three — twit-twit-twit  tweet!"  The 
birds  burst  into  their  usual  ecstasy  of  singing,  and  the 
Count  chirruped  and  whistled  at  them  in  return,  as  if  he 
was  a  bird  himself.  My^room  door  is  open,  and  1  can  hear 
'Jie  shrill  singing  and  whistling  at  this  very  moment.  If  I 
am  really  to  slip  out,  without  being  observed,  now  is  my 
time. 

Four  o'clocTc. — The  three  hours  that  have  passed  since  I 
made  my  last  entry,  have  turned  the  whole  march  of  events 
at  Blackwater  Park  in  a  new  direction.  Whether  for  good 
or  for  evil,  I  can  not  and  dare  not  decide. 

Let  me  get  back  tirst  to  the  place  at  which  1  left  off — 
or  1  shall  lose  myself  in  the  confusion  of  my  own  thoughts. 
I  went  on,  as  1  had  proposed,  to  meet  the  messenger  with 
my  letter  from  London,  at  the  lodge  gate.  On  the  stairs  I 
saw  no  one.  In  the  hall  I  heard  the  Count  still  exercising 
his  birds.  But  on  crossing  the  quadrangle  outside,  1  passed 
Mme.  Fosco,  walking  by  herself  in  her  favorite  circle, 
round  and  round  the  great  fish-pond.  1  at  once  slackened 
my  pace,  so  as  to  avoid  all  appearance  of  being  in  a  hurryj' 
and  even  went  the  length,  for  caution's  sake,  of  inquiring 
if  she  thought  of  going  out  before  lunch.  She  smiled  at  me 
in  the  friendliest  manner — said  she  preferred  remaining 
near  the  house — nodded  pleasantly — and  re-entered  tho 
liall.  1  looked  back,  and  saw  that  she  had  closed  the  door 
before  1  had  opened  the  wicket  by  the  side  of  the  carriage 
gates. 

In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  reached  the  lodge. 

The  lane  outside  took  a  sudden  turn  to  the  left,  ran  on 
s:,:v:j,ht  for  a  hundred  yaids  or  so,  and  (hen  took  another 
sharp  turu  to   the  right  to  join  the  high-road.     Between 


THE  wo^fA^r  in   white.  si6l 

these  two  turus,  hidden  from  the  lo^e  ou  one  side  and 
from  the  way  to  the  station  on  the  other,  I  waited,  walk- 
ing backward  and  forward.  High  hedges  were  on  either 
side  of  me;  and  for  twenty  minutes,  by  my'watch,  I  neither 
saw  nor  heard  anything.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  the 
sound  of  a  carriage  caught  my  ear,  and  1  was  met,  as  I 
advanced  toward  liie  second  turning,  by  a  fly  from  the  rail- 
way. 1  made  a  sign  to  the  driver  to  stop.  As  he  obeyed 
me,  a  respectable-looking  man  put  his  head  out  of  the  win- 
dow to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said;  "  but  am  I  right  in  sup- 
posing that  you  are  going  to  Blackwater  Park?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  With  a  letter  for  any  one?'' 

*'  With  a  letter  for  Miss  Halcombe,  ma'am." 

"  You  may  give  me  the  letter.     I  am  Miss  Halcombe.'* 

The  man  touched  his  hat,  got  out  of  the  fly  immediate- 
ly, and  gave  me  the  letter. 

I  opened  it  at- once,  and  read  these  lines.  1  copy  them 
here,  thinking  it  best  to  destroy  the  original  for  caution's 
sake. 

"  Dear  Madame, — Your  letter  received  this  morning 
has  caused  me  very  great  anxiety.  I  will  reply  to  it  as 
briefly  and  plainly  as  possible. 

"  My  careful  consideration  of  the  statement  made  by 
yourself,  and  my  knowledge  of  Lady  Glyde's  position,  as 
defined  in  the  settlement,  lead  me,  I  regret  to  say,  to  the 
conclusion  that  a  loan  of  the  trust  money  to  Sir  Percival 
(or,  in  other  words,  a  loan  of  some  portion  of  the  twenty 
thousand  pounds  of  Lady  Glyde's  fortune)  is  in  contempla- 
tion, and  that  she  is  made  a  party  to  the  deed,  in  order  to 
secure  her  approval  of  a  flagrant  breach  of  trust,  and  to 
have  her  signature  produced  against  her,  if  she  should  com- 
plain hereafter.  It  is  impossible,  on  any  other  supposition, 
to  account,  situated  as  she  is,  for  her  execution  to  a  deed 
of  any  kind  being  wanted  at  all. 

"  In  the  event  of  Lady  Glyde's  signing  such  a  document 
as  I  am  compelled  to  suppose  the  deed  in  question  to  be, 
her  trustees  would  be  at  liberty  to  advance  money  to  Sir 
Percival  out  of  her  twenty  thousand  pounds.  If  the 
amount  so  lent  should  not  be  paid  back,  and  if  Lady  Glyde 
should  have  children,  their  fortune  will  then  be  diminished 


202  THE    ^VOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

by  the  suir-,  large  or  small,  so  advanced.  la  plainer  terms 
still,  the  transaction,  for  anything  that  Lady  Glyde  knows 
to  the  contrary,  may  be  a  fraud  upon  lier  unborn  children. 
"  Under  these  serious  circumstances,  1  would  recommend 
Lady  Glyde  to  assign  as  a  reason  for  withholding  her  signa- 
ture, that  she  wishes  the  deed  to  be  first  submitted  to  my- 
self, as  her  family  solicitor  (in  the  absence  of  my  partner, 
Mr.  Gilmore).  No  reasonable  objection  can  be  made  to 
taking  this  course — for,  if  the  transaction  is  an  honorable 
one,  there  will  necessarily  be  no  difficulty  in  my  giving  my 
approval. 

Sincerely  assuring  you  of  my  readiness  to  afEord  any 
additional  help  or  advice  that  may  be  wanted,  I  beg  to  re- 
main, madame,  your  faithful  servant, 

"  William  Kyrle." 

I  read  this  kind  and  sensible  letter  very  thankfully.  It 
supplied  Laura  with  a  reason  for  objecting  to  the  signa- 
ture which  was  unanswerable,  and  which  we  could  both  of 
us  understand.  The  messenger  waited  near  me  while  1 
was  reading,  to  receive  his  directions  when  I  had  done. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  say  that  I  understand  the 
letter,  and  that  I  am  very  much  obliged?'^  1  said.  "  There 
is  no  other  reply  necessary  at  present." 

Exactly  at  the  moment  when  1  was  speaking  those  words, 
holding  the  letter  open  ni  my  hand.  Count  Fosco  turned 
the  corner  of  the  lane  from  the  high-road,  and  stood  be- 
fore me  as  if  he  had  sprung  up  out  of  the  earth. 

The  suddenness  of  his  appearance,  in  the  very  last  place 
under  heaven  in  which  I  should  have  expected  to  see  him, 
took  me  completely  by  surprise.  The  messenger  wished 
me  good-morning,  and  got  into  the  fly  again.  I  could 
not  say  a  word  to  him — I  was  not  even  able  to  return  his 
bow.  The  conviction  that  I  was  discovered — and  by  that 
man,  of  all  others — absolutely  petrified  me. 

"  Are  you  going  back  to  the  house,  Miss  Halcombe?" 
he  inquired,  without  showing  the  least  surprise  on  his  side, 
and  without  even  looking  after  the  fly,  which  drove  off 
while  he  was  speaking  to  me. 

1  collected  myself  sufficiently  to  make  a  sign  in  the 
affirmative. 

"  1  am  going  back  too."  he  said.     "  Pray  allow  me  the 


THE    WOMAN     IN    WHITE.  263 

pleasure  of  accompanying  you.  Will  you  take  my  arm? 
You  look  surprised  at  seeing  me!'' 

1  took  his  arm.  The  first  of  my  scattered  senses  that 
came  back  was  the  sense  that  warned  me  to  sacrifice  any- 
thing rather  than  make  an  enemy  of  him. 

"  You  look  surprised  at  seeing  me!'^  he  repeated,  in  his 
quietly  pertinacious  way. 

"  1  thought,  Count,  I  heard  you  with  your  birds  in  the 
breakfast-room,"  I  answered,  as  quietly  and  firmly  as  I 
could. 

"  Surely.  But  my  little  feathered  children,  dear  lady, 
are  only  too  like  other  children.  They  have  their  days  of 
perversity;  and  this  morning  was  one  of  them.  My  wife 
came  in  as  I  was  putting  them  back  in  their  cage,  and  said 
she  had  left  you  going  out  alone  for  a  walk.  You  told  her 
so,  did  you  not?" 

"Certainly/' 

"  Well,  Miss  Halcombe,  the  pleasure  of  accompanying 
you  was  too  great  a  temptation  for  me  to  resist.  At  (uy 
age,  there  is  no  harm  in  confessing  so  much  as  that,  is 
there?  1  seized  my  hat,  and  set  off  to  offer  myself  as  your 
escort.  Even  so  fat  an  old  man  as  Fosoo  is  surely  better 
than  no  escort  at  all?  I  took  the  wrong  path — I  came 
back  in  despair — and  here  I  am,  arrived  (may  1  say  it?)  at 
the  height  of  my  wishes." 

He  talked  on  in  this  complimentary  strain,  with  a  fluency 
which  left  me  no  exertion  to  make  beyond  the  elfort  of 
maintaining  my  composure.  He  never  referred  in  the 
most  distant  manner  to  what  he  had  seen  in  the  lane,  or  to 
the  letter  which  I  still  had  in  my  hand.  This  ominous  dis- 
cretion helpsid  to  convince  me  that  he  must  have  surprised, 
by  the  most  dishonorable  means,  the  secret  of  my  applica- 
tion, in  Laura's  interest,  to  the  lawyer,'  and  that,  having 
now  assured  himself  of  the  private  manner  in  which  I  had 
received  the  answer,  he  had  discovered  enough  to  suit  his 
purposes,  and  was  only  bent  on  trying  to  quiet  the  sus- 
picions which  he  knew  he  must  have  aroused  in. my  mind. 
I  was  wise  enough,  under  tliese  circumstances,  not  to  at- 
tempt to  deceive  him  by  plausible  explanations,  and  wom- 
an enough,  notwithstanding  my  dread  of  him,  to  feel  as  if 
my  hanil  was  tainted  by  resting  on  his  arm. 

On  the  drive  in  front  of  the  house  we  met  the  dog-cart 
being  taken  round  to  the  stables.     Sir  Percival  had  just 


t()4  THK    WOMAX    IN    WHITE, 

reii'.rned.  He  came  out  to  meet  us  at  the  house  door. 
Wliatever  other  results  his  joaruey  might  have  had,  it  had 
not  eiulcd  iu  sofLeiiing  h's  savnge  temper. 

"  Oh!  here  are  two  of  you  come  back,"  he  said,  with  a 
lowering  face.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of  the  house  being 
deserted  in  this  way?     Where  is  Lady  Glyde?" 

I  told  him  of  the  loss  of  the  brooch,  and  said  that  Laura 
had  gone  into  the  plantation  to  look  for  it. 

"  Brooch  or  no  brooch,''"  he  growled,  sulkily,  "  I  recom- 
mend her  not  to  forget  her  appointment  in  the  library  this 
afternoon.     I  shall  expect  to  see  her  iu  half  au  hour." 

1  took  my  hand  from  the  Count's  arm,  and  slowly  as- 
cended the  steps.  He  honored  rae  with  one  of  his  magnifi- 
ceut  bows;  and  then  addressed  himself  gayly  to  the  scowl- 
ing master  of  the  house.  • 

"  Tell  me,  Percival,"  he  said,  "  have  you  had  a  pleasant 
drive?  And  has  your  pretty  shining  Brown  Molly  come 
back  at  all  tired?"" 

"  Brown  Molly  be  hanged — and  the  drive  too!  I  want 
my  lunch." 

"And  I  want  five  minutes'  talk  with  you,  Percieal, 
first,"  returned  the  Count  —  "five  minutes'  talk,  my 
friend,  here  on  the  grass." 

"  What  about?" 

"  About  business  that  very  much  concerns  you." 

1  lingered  long  enough,  in  passing  through  the  hall  door, 
to  hear  this  question  and  answer,  and  to  see  Sir  Percival 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  in  sullen  hesitation. 

"  if  you  want  to  badger  me  with  any  more  of  your  in- 
fernal scruples,"  he  said,  "I,  for  one,  won't  hear  them. 
I  want  my  lunch." 

"  Come  out  here  and  speak  to  me,"  repeated  the  Count, 
still  perfectly  uninfluenced  by  the  rudest  speech  that  his 
friend  could  make  to  him. 

Sir  Percival  descended  the  steps.  The  Count  took  him 
by  the  arm,  and  walked  him  away  gently.  The  "  busi- 
ness," I  was  sure,  referred  to  the  question  of  the  signa- 
ture. They  were  speaking  of  Laura  and  of  me,  beyond  a 
doubt.  I  felt  heartsick  and  faint  with  anxiety.  It  might 
be  of  the  last  importance  to  both  of  us  to  know  what  they 
were  saving  to  each  other  at  that  moment — and  not  one 
(p-ord  of  it  could  by  any  possibility  reach  my  ears. 

I  walked  about  the  house,  from  room  to  room,  with  the 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  206 

lawyer's  letter  in  my  bosom  fl  was  afraid,  by  this  time, 
even  to  trust  it  under  lock  ami  key),  till  th©  oppression  of 
my  suspense  half  maddened  me.  There  were  no  signs  of 
Laura's  return,  and  I  thought  of  going  out  to  look  for 
her.  But  my  strength  was  so  exhausted  by  the  trials  and 
anxieties  of  the  morning,  that  the  heat  of  the  day  quite 
overpowered  me;  and,  after  an  attempt  to  get  to  the  door, 
I  was  obliged  to  return  to  the  drawing-room,  and  lie  down 
on  the  nearest  sofa  to  recover. 

1  was  just  composing  myself,  when  the  door  opened 
softly,  and  the  Count  looked  in. 

"A  thousand  pardons.  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said;  "I 
only  venture  to  disturb  you  because  I  am  the  bearer  of 
good  news.  Percival — who  is  capricious  in  everything,  as 
you  know — has  seen  fit  to  alter  his  mind,  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, and  the  business  of  the  signature  is  put  off  for  the 
present.  A  great  relief  to  all  of  us.  Miss  Halcombe,  as  I 
see  with  pleasure  in  your  face.  Pray  present  my  best  re- 
spects and  felicitations,  when  you  mention  this  pleasant 
change  of  circumstances  to  Lady  Glyde. " 

He  left  me  before  I  had  recovered  my  astonishment. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  this  extraordinary  alteration 
of  purpose  in  the  matter  of  the  signature  was  due  to  his 
influence;  and  that  his  discovery  of  my  application  to 
London  yesterday,  and  of  my  having  received  an  answer 
to  it  to-day,  had  offered  hirn  the  means  of  interfering  with 
certain  success. 

J  felt  these  impressions;  but  my  mind  seemed  to  share 
the  exhaustion  of  my  body,  aiid  I  was  in  no  condition  to 
dwell  on  them,  with  any  useful  reference  to  the  doubtful 
present  or  the  threatening  future.  I  tried  a  second  time 
to  run  out  and  find  Laura;  but  my  head  was  giddy,  and 
my  knees  trembled  under  me.  There  was  no  choice  but 
to  give  it  up  again,  and  return  to  the  sofa,  sorely  against 
my  will. 

The  quiet  in  the  house,  and  the  low  murmuring  hum  of 
summer  insects  outside  the  open  window,  soothed  me. 
My  eyes  closed  of  themselves;  and  I  passed  gradually  in  j 
a  strange  condition,  which  was  not  waking — for  I  knew 
nothing  of  what  was  going  on  about  me;  and  not  sleeping 
— for  1  was  conscious  of  my  own  repose.  In  this  state,  my 
fevered  mind  broke  loose  from  me,  while  my  weary  body 
was  at  rest;  and,  in  a  trance,  or  day-dream  of  my  fancy — 


266  THE    WOMAK    IN    WHITB. 

J  know  not  what  to  call  iL — 1  saw  Walter  Hartrighfc.  I 
had  not  thought  of  him  since  I  rose  that  morning;  Laura 
had  not  said  one  word  to  me,  either  directly  or  indirect!}', 
referring  to  him — and  yet,  I  saw  him  now,  as  plainly  as  if 
the  past  time  had  returned,  and  we  were  both  together 
again  at  Limmeridge  House. 

He  appeared  to  me  as  one  among  many  other  men,  none 
of  whose  faces  I  could  plainly  discern.  They  were  all  lying 
on  the  steps  of  an  immense  ruined  temple.  Colossal  trop- 
ical trees — with  rank  creepers  twining  endlessly  about  their 
trunks,  and  hideous  stone  idols  glimmering  and  grinning 
at  intervals  behind  leaves  and  stalks  and  branches — sur- 
rounded the  temple,  and  shut  out  the  sky,  and  threw  a  dis- 
mal shadow  over  the  forlorn  band  of  men  on  the  steps. 
White  exhalations  twisted  and  curled  up  stealthily  from 
the  ground;  approached  the  men  in  wreaths,  like  smoke; 
touched  them;  and  stretched  them  out  dead,  one  by  one, 
in  the  places  where  they  lay.  An  agony  of  pity  and  fear 
for  Walter  loosened  my  tongue,  and  I  implored  him  to 
escape.  "  Come  back!  come  backT'  I  said.  "  Remember 
your  promise  to  Iier  and  to  n>e.  Come  back  to  us,  before  the 
Pestilence  reaches  you,  and  lays  you  dead  like  the  rest!" 

He  looked  at  me,  with  an  unearthly  quiet  in  his  face. 
"  Wait,"  he  said.  "  1  shall  come  back.  The  night,  when 
I  met  the  lost  Woman  on  the  high- way  was  the  night 
which  set  my  life  apart  to  be  the  instrument  of  a  Design 
that  is  yet  unseen.  Here,  lost  in  the  wilderness,  or  there, 
welcomed  back  in  the  land  of  my  birth,  1  am  still  walking 
on  the  dark  road  which  leads  me,  and  you,  and  the  sister 
of  your  love  and  mine,  to  the  unknown  Retribution  and 
the  inevitable  End.  Wait  and  look.  The  Pestilence  which 
touches  the  rest  will  pass  me." 

1  saw  him  again.  He  was  still  in  the  forest;  and  the 
numbers  of  his  lost  companions  had  dwindled  to  very  few. 
The  temple  was  gone,  and  the  idols  were  gone — and,  in 
their  place,  the  figures  of  dark,  dwarfish  men  lurked  mur- 
derously among  the  trees,  with  bows  in  their  hands,  and 
arrows  fitted  to  the  string.  Once  more  I  feared  for  Wal- 
ter, and  cried  out  to  warn  him.  Once  more  he  turned  to 
me,  with  the  immovable  quiet  in  his  face.  "  Another 
step,"  ho  said,  "  on  the  dark  road.  Wait  and  look.  The 
arrows  that  strike  the  rest  will  spare  ine." 

I  saw  him  for  the  third  time,  in  a  wrecked  ship,  ptranded 


THE     V/OMAN"     IN     -WHIT!!:,  2j7 

on  a  wild,  sandy  shoi-e.  The  overloaded  bouts  were  niuk- 
ing  away  from  liim  for  the  land,  and  he  alone  was  left,  to 
sink  with  the  ship.  I  cried  to  him  to  hail  the  hindmost 
boat,  and  to  make  a  last  effort  for  his  life.  The  quiet  face 
looked  at  me  in  return,  and  the  unmoved  voice  gave  me 
back  the  changeless  reply.  "  Another  step  on  the  jour- 
ney. Wait  and  look.  The  Sea  which  drowns  the  rest 
will  spare  nie." 

1  saw  him  for  the  last  time.  He  was  kneeling  by  the 
tomb  of  white  marble;  and  the  shadow  of  a  veiled  woman 
rose  out  of  the  grave  beneath,  and  waited  by  his  side.  The 
unearthly  quiet  of  his  face  had  changed  to  an  unearthly 
sorrow.  But  the  terrible  certainty  of  his  words  remained, 
the  same.  "  Darker  and  darker/'  he  said;  "  further  and 
further  yet.  Death  takes  the  good,  the  beautiful,  and  the 
young— and  spares  me.  The  Pestilence  that  wastes,  the 
Arrow  that  strikes,  the  Sea  that  drowns,  the  Grave  that 
closes  over  Love  and  Hope,  are  steps  of  my  journey,  and 
takes  me  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  End. " 

My  heart  sunk  under  a  dread  beyond  words,  under  a 
grief  beyond  tears.  The  darkness  closed  round  the  pilgrim 
at  the  marble  tomb;  closed  round  the  veiled  woman  from 
the  grave;  closed  round  the  dreamer  who  looked  on  them. 
1  saw  and  heard  no  more. 

1  was  roused  by  a  hand  laid  on  my  shoulder.  Ic  was 
Laura's. 

She  had  dropped  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of  the  sofa. 
Her  face  was  flushed  and  agitated;  and  her  eyes  met  mine 
in  a  wild  bewildered  manner,  I  started  the  instant  1  saw 
her. 

"  What  has  happened?"  1  asked.  "  What  has  fright- 
ened you?" 

She  looked  round  at  the  half-open  door — put  her  h'ps 
close  to  my  ear — and  answered  in  a  whisper: 

"Marian! — the  figure  at  the  lake — the  footsteps  last 
night — I've  just  seen  her!    I've  just  spoken  to  her!" 

"  Who,  for  Heaven's  sake?" 

**  Anne  Cathei-ick." 

1  was  so  startled  by  the  disturbance  in  Laura's  face  and 
manner,  and  so  dismayed  by  the  first  waking  impressions 
of  my  dream,  that  1  was  not  fit  to  bear  the  revelation 
which  Durst  upon  me  when  that  name  passed  her  lips,     1 


2GS  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

couid  only  stand  rooted  to  the  floor,  looking  at  her  in 
breathless  silence. 

She  was  too  much  absorbed  by  what  had  happened  to 
notice  the  effect  which  her  reply  had  produced  on  me. 
"I  hav^e  seen  Anne  Calherick!  I  have  spoken  to  Anne 
Catherick!''  she  repeated,  as  if  1  had  not  heard  her. 
"  Oil,  Marian,  I  have  such  things  to  tell  you!  Come  away 
— we  may  be  interrupted  here — come  at  once  into  mj 
room. " 

With  those  eager  words,  she  caught  me  by  the  hand,  and 
led  me  through  the  library,  to  the  end  room  on  the  ground 
floor,  which  had  been  fitted  up  for  her  own  especial  use. 
No  third  person,  except  her  maid,  could  have  any  excuse 
for  surprising  us  here.  She  pushed  me  in  before  her, 
locked  the  door,  and  diew  the  chintz  curtains  that  hung 
over  the  inside. 

The  strange,  stunned  feeling  which  had  taken  possession 
of  me  still  remained.  But  a  growing  conviction  that  the 
complicatiuns  vvliich  had  long  threatened  to  gather  about 
her,  and  to  gather  about  me,  had  suddenly  closed  fast 
round  us  both,  was  now  beginning  to  penetrate  my  mind. 
I  could  not  express  it  in  words — I  could  hardly  even  realize 
it  dunly  in  my  own  thoughts.  "Anne  Catherick!"  1 
whispered  to  myself^  with  useless,  helpless  reiteration — 
"  Anne  Catherickl'' 

Laura  drew  me  to  the  nearest  seat,  an  ottoman  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  "Look!''  she  said;  "look  here!'" 
— and  pointed  to  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 

I  saw,  for  the  first  time,  that  the  lost  brooch  was  pinned 
in  its  place  again.  There  was  something  real  in  the  sight 
of  it,  something  real  in  the  touching  of  it  afterward,  which 
seemed  to  steady  the  whirl  and  confusion  in  my  thoughts^ 
and  to  help  me  to  compose  myself. 

"  Where  did  you  find  your  brooch?"  The  first  words  1 
could  say  to  her  were  the  words  which  put  that  trivial  ques- 
tion at  the  important  moment. 

"  Shetounii  it,  Manau." 

"  Where?" 

"  On  the  floor  of  the  boat-honse.  Oh,  how  shall  1  begin 
— how  shall  I  tfll  you  about  it?  She  talked  to  me  so 
strangely — she  looked  so  fearfully  i.l — she  left  me  so  sud- 
denly— !" 

Her  voice  rose  as  the  tumult  of  her  recollections  pressed 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  269 

Qpofl  her  mind.  The  inveterate  distru8t  which  weighs, 
nighc  and  day,  on  my  spirits  in  this  liousr,  instantly  roused 
me  to  warn  her — just  as  the  sight  of  the  brooch  had  roused 
me.  to  question  her,  the  oiomeut  before, 

"  Speak  low,"  1  said.  "  The  window  is  open,  and  the 
garden-path  runs  beneath  it.  Begin  at  the  beginning, 
Laura.  Tell  me,  word  for  word,  what  passed  between  that 
woman  and  you." 

"  Shall  I  close  the  window  first?" 

"No;  only  speak  low:  only  remember  that  Anne  Cath- 
«rick  is  a  dangerous  subject  under  your  husband's  roof. 
Where  did  you  first  see  her?" 

*'  At  the  boat-house,  Marian.  I  went  out,  as  you  know, 
to  find  my  brooch;  and  I  walked  along  the  path  through 
the  plantation,  lookmg  down  on  the  ground  carefully  at 
every  step.  In  that  way  1  got  on,  after  a  long  time,  to 
the  boat-house;  and  as  soon  as  1  was  inside  it  1  went  on 
my  knees  to  hunt  over  the  floor.  I  was  still  searching, 
with  my  back  to  the  door-way,  when  I  heard  a  soft,  strange 
voice,  behind  me,  say,  'Miss  Fairlie.'  " 

"MissFairlie!" 

"  Yes — my  old  name — the  dear,  familiar  name  that  I 
thought  I  had  parted  trum  forever.  1  started  up — not 
frightened,  the  voice  was  loo  kind  and  gentle  to  frighten 
anybody — but  very  mnch  surprised.  There,  looking  at 
me  from  the  door-way,  stood  a  woman,  whose  face  I  never 
remembered  to  have  seen  beiore — " 

"  How  was  she  dressed?" 

"  She  had  a  neat,  pretty  rvhite  gown  on,  and  over  it  a 
poor  worn  thin  dark  shawl.  Her  bonnet  was  of  brown 
straw,  as  poor  and  worn  as  the  shawl.  I  was  struck  by  the 
difference  between  her  gown  and  the  rest  of  her  dress,  and 
she  saw  that  I  noticed  it.  '  Don't  look  at  my  bonnet  and 
shawl,'  she  said,  speaking  in  a  quick,  breathless,  sudden 
way;  '  if  1  mustn't  wear  white,  1  don't  care  what  1  wear. 
Look  at  my  gown  as  much  as  you  please;  I'm  not  ashamed 
of  that.'  Very  strange,  was  it  not?  Before  I  could  say 
anything  to  soothe  her,  she  held  out  one  of  her  hands,  and 
I  saw  my  brooch  in  it.  I  was  so  pleased  and  so  grateful, 
that  I  went  quite  close  to  her  to  say  what  I  really  felt. 
'  Are  you  thankful  enough  to  do  me  one  little  kindness?' 
she  asked.  'Yes,  indeed,'  1  answered;  'any  kindness  in 
my  power  I  shall  be  glad  to  shew  vou.'     '  Then  let  me  pin 


270  THE    WOMAX    IN    WHITE. 

your  brooch  ou  for  you,  now  I  have  found  it.'  Her  request 
was  so  unexpected,  Marian,  and  she  made  it  with  such  ex- 
traordinary eagerness,  that  1  drew  back  a  step  or  two,  not 
well  knowiug  what  to  do.  *  Ah!'  she  said,  '  your  mother 
would  have  let  me  pin  on  the  brooch.'  There  was  some- 
thing in  her  voice  and  her  look,  as  well  as  in  her  mention- 
ing my  mother  in  that  reproachful  manner,  which  made 
me  ashamed  of  my  distrust.  1  took  her  hand  wiih  the 
brooch  in  it,  and  put  it  up  gently  on  the  bosom  of  my 
dress.  '  You  knew  my  mother?'  I  said.  '  Was  it  very 
long  ago?  have  I  ever  seen  you  before?'  Her  hands  were 
busy  fastening  the  brooch:  she  stopped  and  pressed  them 
against  my  breast.  '  You  don't  remember  a  fine  spring 
day  at  Limmeridge,'  she  said,  '  and  your  mother  walking 
down  the  path  that  led  to  the  school,  with  a  little  girl  on 
each  side  of  her?  1  have  had  nothing  eloe  to  think  of 
since;  and  /  remember  it.  You  were  one  of  the  little 
girls,  and  I  was  the  other.  Pretty,  clever  Miss  Fairlie,  and 
poor  dazed  Anne  Catherick  were  nearer  to  each  other  then 
than  they  are  now!'  " 

"  Did  you  remember  ner,  Laura,  when  she  told  you  her 
name?" 

"  Yes — I  remembered  your  asking  me  about  Anne  Cath- 
erick at  Limmeridge,  and  your  saying  that  she  had  once 
been  considered  like  me." 

"  What  reminded  you  of  that,  Laura?" 

"  iShe  reminded  me.  While  I  was  looking  at  her,  while 
she  was  very  close  to  me,  it  came  over  my  mind  suddenly 
that  we  were  like  each  other!  Her  face  was  pale  and  thin 
and  weary — but  the  sight  of  it  startled  me,  as  if  it  had  been 
the  sight  of  my  own  face  in  the  glass  after  a  long  illness. 
The  discovery — I  don't  know  why— gave  me  such  a  shock, 
that  1  was  perfectly  incapable  of  speaking  to  her  for  the 
moment." 

"  Did  she  seem  hurt  by  your  silence?" 

"  1  am  afraid  she  was  hurt  by  it.  '  You  have  not  got 
your  mother's  face,'  she  said,  '  or  your  mother's  heart. 
Your  mother's  face  was  dark;  and  your  mother's  heart. 
Miss  Fairlie,  was  the  heart  of  an  angel.'  '  1  am  sure  1  feel 
kindly  toward  you,'  I  said,  '  though  1  may  not  be  able  to 
express  it  as  I  ought.  Why  do  you  call  me  Miss  Fair- 
lie — ?'  '  Because  I  love  the  name  of  Fairlie  and  hate  the 
name  of  Glyde,'  she  broke  out  violently.     1  had  seen  noth- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  271 

ing  like  madness  in  her  before  this;  but  I  fancied  1  saw  is 
now  in  her  eyes.  '  I  only  thought  you  might  not  know  I 
was  married/  I  said,  remembering  the  wild  letter  she  wrote 
to  me  at  Lirameridge,  and  trying  to  quiet  her.  She  sighed 
bitterly,  and  turned  away  from  me.  '  Not  know  you  were 
married!"  she  repeated.  *  1  am  here  hecause  you  are  mar- 
ried. I  am  here  to  make  atonement  to  you,  before  I  meet 
your  mother  in  the  world  beyond  the  grave. '  She  drew 
further  and  further  away  from  me,  till  she  was  out  of  the 
boat-house — and  then  she  watched  and  listened  for  a  little 
while.  When  she  turned  round  to  speak  again,  instead  of 
coming  back,  she  stopped  where  she  was,  looking  in  at 
me,  with  a  hand  on  each  side  of  the  entrance.  '  Did  you 
see  me  at  the  lake  last  night?'  she  said.  '  Did  you  hear 
me  following  you  in  the  wood?  1  have  been  waiting  for 
days  together  to  speak  to  you  alone — 1  have  left  the  only 
friend  I  have  in  the  world,  anxious  and  frightened  about 
me — 1  have  risked  being  shut  up  again  in  the  mad-house 
—and  all  for  your  sake.  Miss  Fairlie,  all  for  your  sake." 
Her  words  alarmed  me,  Marian;  and  yet  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  way  she  spoke  that  made  me  pity  her  with  all 
my  heart.  I  am  sure  my  pity  must  have  been  sincere,  for 
it  made  me  bold  enough  to  ask  the  poor  creature  to  coma 
in,  and  sit  down  in  the  boat-house  by  my  side." 

"  Did  she  do  so?" 

"  No.  She  shook  her  head,  and  told  me  she  must  stop 
where  she  was,  to  watch  and  listen,  and  see  that  no  third 
person  surprised  us.  And  from  tirsft  to  last,  there  she 
waited  at  the  entrance,  with  a  hand  on  each  side  of  it;  some- 
times bending  in  suddenly  to  speak  to  me;  sometimes  draw-- 
ing  back  suddenly  to  look  about  her.  '  I  was  here  yester- 
day,' she  said,  '  before  it  came  dark;  and  I  heard  you,  and 
the  lady  with  you,  talking  together.  I  heard  you  tell  her 
about  your  husband.  1  heard  you  say  you  had  no  influence 
to  make  him  believe  you,  and  no  iiifiuence  to  keep  him 
silent.  Ah!  I  knew  what  those  words  meant;  my  con- 
science told  me  while  I  was  listening.  Why  did  I  ever  let 
you  marry  him!  Oh,  my  fear — my  mad,  miserable, 
wicked  fear — !'  She  covered  up  her  face  in  her  poor  worn 
shawl,  and  moaned  and  murmured  to  herself  behind  it. 
I  began  to  be  afraid  she  might  break  out  into  some  terrible 
despair  which  neither  she  nor  1  could  master.  '  Try  '-q 
quiet  yourself/  I  saidj  '  try  to  tell  me  how  vou  might  have 


272  THE    WOMAN    IIT    WHITE. 

prevented  my  marriage.'  She  took  the  shawl  from  her 
face,  and  looked  at  me  vacantly.  '  I  ought  to  have  had 
heart  enough  to  stop  at  Limmeridge/  she  answered.  '  I 
ought  never  to  have  let  the  news  of  his  coming  there 
frighten  me  away.  I  ought  to  have  warned  you  and  save 
you  before  it  was  too  late.  Why  did  I  only  have  courage 
enough  to  write  you  that  letter?  AVhy  did  I  only  do  harm, 
when  I  vranted  and  meant  to  do  good?  Oh,  my  fear — my 
mad,  miserable,  wicked  fear!'  She  repeated  those  words 
again,  and  hid  her  face  again  in  the  end  of  her  poor  worn 
shawl.  It  was  dreadful  to  see  her,  and  dreadful  to  hear 
her.'' 

"  Surely,  Laura,  you  asked  what  the  fear  was  which  she 
dwelt  on  so  earnestly?" 

"  Yes;  1  asked  that," 

"  And  what  did  she  say?'* 

"  She  asked  me,  in  return,  if  1  should  not  be  afraid  of  a 
man  who  had  shut  me  up  in  a  mad-house,  and  who 
would  shut  me  up  again  if  he  could?  I  said,  '  Are 
you  afraid  still?  Surely  you  would  not  be  here,  if 
you  were  afraid  now?'  '  No,'  she  said,  '  I  am  not  afraid 
now,'  1  asked  why  not.  She  suddenly  bent  forward  into 
the  boat-house,  and  said,  '  Can't  you  guess  why?'  1  shook 
my  head,  '  Look  at  me,'  she  went  on,  1  told  her  I  was 
grieved  to  see  that  she  looked  very  sorrowful  and  very  ill. 
She  smiled,  for  the  first  tioie.  '  111?'  she  repeated;  '  I'm 
dying.  You  know  why  I'm  not  afraid  of  him  now.  Do 
you  think  I  shall  meet  your  mother  in  heaven?  Will  she 
forgive  me,  if  1  do?'  1  was  so  shocked  and  so  startled,  that 
I  could  make  no  reply.  '  I  have  been  thinking  of  it,'  she 
went  on,  '  all  the  time  I  have  been  in  hiding  from  your 
husband,  all  the  time  I  lay  ill.  My  thoughts  have  driven 
me  here — I  want  to  make  atonement — I  want  to  undo  all 
I  can  of  the  harm  I  once  did.'  I  begged  her  as  earnestly 
as  I  could  to  tell  me  what  she  meant.  She  still  looked  at 
me  with  fixed,  vacant  eyes,  '  Shall  1  undo  the  harm?' 
she  said  to  herself,  doubtfully.  '  You  have  friends  to  take 
your  part.  If  you  know  his  Secret,  he  will  be  afraid  of 
you;  he  won't  dare  use  you  as  he  used  me.  He  must  treat 
you  mercifully  for  his  own  sake,  if  he  is  afraid  of  you  and 
your  friends.  And  if  he  treats  you  mercifully,  and  if  I  can 
say  it  was  my  doing — '  I  listened  eagerly  for  morej  but 
^he  stopped  at  those  words," 


THK    WOMAN    JNT     WHITE. 


273 


«'  You  tried  to  make  her  go  ou?" 

"  1  tried;  but  she  only  drew  herself  away  from  me  agam, 
and  leaned  her  face  and  arms  against  the  side  of  the  boat- 
house,  '  Oh  I'  I  heard  her  say,  with  a  dreadful,  distracted 
tenderness  iu  her  voice.  '  oh!  if  I  could  only  be  buried  with 
your  mother!  If  1  could  only  wake  at  her  side  when  the 
ancrel's  trumpet  sounds,  and  the  graves  give  up  their  dead 
at  the  resurrectioji!'  Marian!  1  trembled  from  head  to 
foot— it  was  horrible  to  hear  her.  '  But  there  is  no  iiope 
of  that,'  she  said,  moving  a  little,  so  as  to  look  at  me  again; 
'  no  hope  for  a  poor  stranger  like  me.  1  shall  not  rest 
under  the  marble  cross  that  I  washed  with  my  own  hands, 
and  made  so  white  and  pure  for  her  sake.  Oh,  no!  oh,  no! 
God's  mercy,  not  man's,  will  take  me  to  her,  where  the 
wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest.' 
She  spoke  those  words  quietly  and  sorrowfully,  with  a 
heavy,  hopeless  sigh;  and  then  waited  a  little.  Her  face 
was  confused  and  troubled;  she  seemed  to  be  thinking,  or 
trying  to  think.  '  What  was  it  1  said  just  now?'  she 
asked,  after  awhile.  '  When  your  mother  is  in  my  mmd, 
everything  else  goes  out  of  it.  What  was  I  saying?  what 
was'  I  saying?'  1  reminded  the  poor  creature,  as  kindly 
and  delicately  as  I  could.  '  Ah!  yes,  yes,'  she  said,  still 
in  a  vacant,  perplexed  manner.  '  You  are  helpless  with 
your  wicked  husband.  Yes.  And  I  must  do  what  I  have 
come  to  do  here— I  must  make  it  up  to  you  for  having  been 
afraid  to  speak  out  at  a  better  time.'  '  What  ^s  it  you 
have  to  tell  me?'  I  asked.  '  The  Secret  that  your  cruel 
husband  is  afraid  of,'  she  answered.  'I  once  threatened 
him  with  the  Secret,  and  frightened  hmi.  lou  shall 
threaten  him  with  the  Secret,  and  frighten  him  too/  Her 
face  darkened;  and  a  hard,  angry  stare  fixed  itself  in  her 
eyes.  She  began  waving  her  hand  at  me  in  a  vacant,  un- 
meaning manner.  '  My  mother  knows  the  Secret,'  she  said. 
'  My  mother  has  wasted  under  the  Secret  half  her  life-time. 
One  day,  when  1  was  grown  up,  she  said  something  to  me. 
And  the  next  dav  your  husband—'  " 

"  Yes!  yes!     Go  on.     What  did  she  tell  you  about  your 
husband?"  .         ^^ 

"  She  stopped  again,  Marian,  at  that  point— 

"  And  said  no  more?" 

"And  listened    eagerly.     'Hush!'  she  whispered,  still 
waving  her  hand  at  me,     '  Hush!'     She  moved  aside  out 


274  THE    WOMA*r    IN     WHITE. 

of  the  door-Nvay,  moved  slowly  and  steahhily,  step  by  step, 
till  I  lost  her  past  the  edge  of  the  boat-house.'^ 

"  Surely  you  followed  her?" 

"  Yes;  my  anxiety  made  me  bold  enough  to  rise  and  fol- 
low her.  Just  as  I  reached  the  entrance,  she  appeared 
again,  suddenly,  round  the  side  of  the  boat-house.  '  The 
ISecret,'  I  whispered  to  her — '  wait  and  tell  me  the  Secret!' 
She  caught  hold  of  my  arm,  and  looked  at  me  with  wild, 
frightened  eyes.  *  Not  now,'  she  said;  '  we  are  not  alone 
—we  are  watched.  Come  here  to-morrow,  at  this  time — 
by  yourself — mind — by  yourself.'  She  pushed  me  roughly 
into  the  boat-house  again;  and  I  saw  her  no  more." 

"  Oh,  Laura,  Laura,  another  chance  lost!  If  I  had  only 
been  near  you,  she  should  not  have  escaped  us.  On  which 
side  did  you  lose  sight  of  her?" 

"  On  the  left  side,  where  the  gcund  sinks  and  the  wood 
is  thickest." 

"  Did  you  run  out  again?  did  you  call  after  her?" 

"  How  could  I?     I  was  too  terrified  to  move  or  speak.'* 

"  But  when  you  did  move — when  you  came  out — ?" 

"  1  ran  back  here,  to  tell  you  what  had  happened." 

"  Did  you  see  any  one,  or  hear  any  one  in  the  planta- 
tion?" 

"  No;  it  seemed  to  be  all  still  and  quiet  when  I  passed 
through  it. " 

I  waited  for  a  moment  to  consider.  Was  this  third  per- 
son, supposed  to  have  been  secretly  present  at  the  inter- 
view, a  reality,  or  the  creature  of  Anne  Oatherick's  excited 
fancy?  It  was  impossible  to  determine.  The  one  thing 
certain  was,  that  we  had  failed  again  on  the  very  brink  of 
discovery — failed  utterly  and  irretrievably,  unless  Anne 
Catherick  kept  her  appointment  at  the  boat-house  for  the 
next  day. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  you  have  told  me  everything  that 
passed?     Every  word  that  was  said?"  I  inquired. 

"  I  think  so,"  she  answered.  "  My  powers  of  memory, 
Marian,  are  not  like  yours.  But  1  was  so  strongly  im- 
pressed, so  deeply  interested,  that  nothing  of  any  impor- 
tance can  possibly  have  escaped  me. " 

"  My  dear  Laura,  the  merest  trifles  are  of  importance 
where  Anne  Catherick  is  concerned.  Think  aeain.  Did 
no  chance  reference  escape  her  as  to  the  place  iu  which  sh« 
la  living  at  the  present  time?" 


The  woman-  in  white.  275 

"None  that  I  can  remember." 

"  Did  she  not  mention  a  companion  and  friend — a  woman 
named  Mrs.  Clements?" 

"  Oh,  yes!  yes!  1  iorgot  that.  She  told  me  Mrs.  Cle- 
ments wanted  sadly  to  go  with  her  to  the  lake  and  take 
care  of  her,  and  begged  and  prayed  that  she  would  not  vent- 
ure into  this  neighborhood  alone."' 

"  Was  that  all  she  said  about  Mrs.  Clements?" 

"Yes,  that  was  all." 

"  She  told  you  nothing  about  the  place  in  which  she  took 
refuge  after  leaving  Todd's  Corner?" 

"  Nothing — I  am  quite  sure." 

"  Nor  where  she  has  lived  since?  Nor  what  her  illness 
had  been?" 

"  No,  Marian;  not  a  word.  Tell  nie,  pray  tell  me,  what 
you  think  about  it.  I  don't  know  what  to  think,  or  what 
to  do  next." 

"  You  must  do  this,  my  love:  You  must  carefully  keep 
the  appointment  at  the  boat-house  to-morrow.  It  is  im- 
possible to  say  what  interests  may  not  depend  on  your  see- 
ing that  woman  again.  You  shall  not  be  left  to  yourself  a 
second  time.  I  will  follow  you  at  a  safe  distance.  Nobody 
shall  see  me;  but  I  will  keep  within  hearing  of  your  voiOe, 
if  anything  happens,  Anne  Catherick  has  escaped  Walter 
Hartright,  and  has  escaped  you.  Whatever  happens,  she 
shall  not  escape  me." 

Laura's  eyes  read  mine  attentively. 

"  You  believe,"  she  said,  "  in  this  secret  that  my  hus- 
band is  afraid  of?  Suppose,  Marian,  it  should  only  exist, 
after  all,  in  Anne  Catherick's  fancy?  Suppose  she  only 
wanted  to  see  me  and  to  speak  to  me  for  the  sake  of  old 
remembrances?  Her  manner  was  so  strange,  I  almost 
doubted  her.      Would  you  trust  her  in  other  things?" 

"  1  trust  nothing,  Laura,  but  my  own  observation  of 
your  husband's  conduct.  I  judge  Anne  Catherick's  words 
by  his  actions — and  I  believe  there  is  a  Secret." 

1  said  no  moue,  and  got  up  to  leave  the  room.  Thoughts 
were  troubling  me,  which  1  might  have  told  her  if  we  had 
spoken  together  longer,  and  which  it  might  have  been  dan- 
gerous for  her  to  know.  The  influence  of  the  terrible 
dream  from  which  she  had  awakened  me,  hung  darkly  and 
heavily  over  every  fresh  impression  which  the  progress  at 
her  narrative  produced  on  mv  mind.     I  felt  the  ominous 


276  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Future  conaiug  close;  chilling  me,  with  aii  unutterable 
awe;  forcing  on  me  the  conviction  of  an  unseen  Design  in 
the  long  series  of  complications  which  had  now  fastened 
round  us,  1  thought  of  llartright — as  I  saw  him,  in  the 
body,  when  he  said  farewell;  as  I  saw  him,  in  the  spirit, 
in  my  dream — and  I,  too,  began  to  doubt  now  whether  we 
were  not  advancing  blindfold  to  an  appointed  and  inevit- 
able End. 

Leaving  Laura  to  go  upstairs  alone,  I  went  out  to  look 
about  me  in  the  walks  near  the  house.  The  circumstances 
under  which  Anne  Catherick  had  parted  from  her,  had 
made  me  secretly  anxious  to  know  how  Count  Fosco  was 
passing  the  afternoon;  and  had  rendered  me  secretly  dis- 
trustful of  the  results  of  that  solitary  journey  from  which 
ISir  Percival  had  returned  but  a  few  hours  since. 

After  looking  for  them  in  every  direction,  and  discover- 
ing nothing,  I  returned  to  the  house,  and  entered  the 
different  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  one  after  another. 
They  were  all  empty.  I  came  out  again  into  the  hall,  and 
went  upstairs  to  return  to  Laura.  Mme.  Fosco  opened  her 
door,  as  1  passed  it  in  my  way  along  the  passage;  and  I 
stopped  to  see  if  she  could  inform  me  of  the  whereabouts 
of  her  husband  and  ISir  Perciv.al.  Yes;  she  had  seen  them 
both  from  her  window  more  than  an  hour  since.  The 
Count  had  looked  up,  with  his  customary  kindness,  and 
had  mentioned,  with  his  habitual  attention  to  her  in  the 
smallest  trifles,  that  he  and  his  friend  were  going  out  to- 
gether for  a  long  walk. 

For  a  long  walk!  They  had  never  yet  been  in  each 
other's  company  with  that  object,  in  my  experience  of 
them.  Sir  Percival  cared  for  no  exercise  but  riding;  and 
the  Count  (except  when  he  was  polite  enough  to  be  my 
escort)  cared  for  no  exercise  at  all. 

When  I  joined  Laura  again,  I  found  that  she  had  called 
to  mind,  in  my  absence,  the  impending  question  of  the  sig- 
nature to  the  deed,  which,  in  the  interest  of  discussing  her 
interview  with  Anne  Catherick,  we  had  hitherto  overlooked. 
Her  first  words,  when  I  saw  her,  expressed  her  surprise  at 
the  absence  of  the  expected  summons  to  attend  Sir  Percival 
in  the  library, 

"  You  may  make  your  mind  easy  on  that  subject,''  I 
said.  "  For  the  present,  at  least,  neither  your  resolution 
nor  mine  will  be  exposed  to  any  further  trial.     Sir  Percival 


THE    ■WOMA^'■    IN    "WHITE.  377 

has  altered  his  plans;  the  business  of  the  signature  is  put 

"  Put  off?"  Laura  repeated,  amazedly.  "  Who  told 
you  so?" 

"  My  authority  is  Count  Fosco.  1  believe  it  is  to  his  in- 
terference that  we  are  indebted  for  your  husband's  sudden 
change  of  purpose." 

"  it  seems  impossible,  Marian.  If  the  object  of  my  sign- 
ing was,  as  we  suppose,  to  obtaiu  money  for  Sir  Percival 
that  he  urgently  wanted,  how  can  the  matter  be  put  off?" 

"  I  think,  Laura,  we  have  the  means  at  hand  of  setting 
that  doubt  at  rest.  Have  you  forgotten  the  conversation 
that  1  heard  between  Sir  Percival  and  the  lawyer,  as  they 
were  crossing  the  hall?" 

"  No;  but  I  don't  remember — " 

"I  do.  There  were  two  alternatives  proposed.  One 
was  to  obtain  your  signature  to  the  parchment.  The  other 
was  to  gain  time  by  givlijg  bills  at  three  months.  The  last 
resource  is  evidently  the  resource  now  adopted — and  we 
may  fairly  hope  to  be  relieved  from  our  share  in  Sir  Perci- 
val's  embarrassments  for  some  time  to  come." 

"  Oh,  Marian,  it  sounds  too  good  to  be  true!" 

"  Does  it,  my  love?  You  complimented  me  on  my 
ready  memory  not  long  since — but  you  seem  to  doubt  it 
now.  I  will  get  my  journal,  and  you  shall  see  if  I  am 
right  or  wrong." 

I  went  away  and  got  the  book  at  once. 

On  looking  back  to  the  entry  referring  to  the  lawyer's 
visit,  we  found  that  my  recollection  of  the  two  alternatives 
presented  was  accurately  correct.  It  was  almost  as  great 
a  relief  to  my  mind  as  to  Laura's,  to  find  that  my  memory 
had  served  me,  on  this  occasion,  as  faithfully  as  usual.  In 
the  perilous  uncertainty  of  our  present  situation,  it  is  hart' 
to  say  what  future  interests  may  not  depend  upon  the  reg- 
ularity of  the  entries  in  my  journal,  and  upon  the  reliabil- 
ity of  my  recollection  at  the  time  when  I  make  them. 

Laura's  face  and  manner  suggested  to  me  that  this  last 
consideration  had  occurred  to  her  as  well  as  to  myself. 
Any  wa}^,  it  is  only  a  trifling  matter;  and  I  am  almost 
ashamed  to  put  it  down  here  in  writing — it  seems  to  set 
th')  forl'imness  of  our  situation  in  such  a  miserably  vivid 
light.      We  must  have  little  indeed  to  depend  on,  when  the 


378  THE    WOMAX    IN    WHITE. 

fliscovery  that  my  memory  can  still  be  trusted  to  serve  us 
is  hailed  as  if  it  was  the  discovery  of  a  new  friend ! 

The  first  bell  for  dinner  separated  us.  Just  as  it  had 
done  ringing,  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  returned  from 
their  walk.  We  heard  the  master  of  the  hause  storming 
at  the  servants  for  being  five  minutes  late;  and  the  mas- 
ter's guest  interposing,  as  usual,  in  the  interests  of  pro- 
priety, patience,  and  peace. 

^  4:  4:  4:  «  4c  «: 

The  evening  has  come  and  gone.  No  extraordinary  event 
has  happened.  Dut  I  have  noticed  certain  peculiarities  in 
the  conduct  of  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count,  which  have  sent 
me  to  my  bed,  feeling  very  anxious  and  uneasy  about  Anne 
Catherick,  and  about  the  results  wh'c^  to-morrow  may 
produce. 

I  know  enough  by  this  time  to  be  sure  .hat  the  aspect  of 
Sir  Percival,  which  is  tli3  most  fals^.  and  whicli,  iheiefore, 
means  the  worst,  is  his  polite  aspect.  That  long  walk  with 
his  friend  had  ended  in  improving  his  manners,  especially 
toward  iiis  wife.  To  Laura's  secret  surprise  and  to  my  se- 
cret alarm,  he  called  her  by  her  Christian  name,  a&ked  if. 
she  had  heard  lately  from  her  uncle,  inquired  when  Mrs. 
Vesey  was  to  recaive  her  invitation  to  Biack water,  and 
showed  her  so  many  other  little  attentions,  that,  he  almost 
recalled  the  days  of  his  hateful  courtship  at  Limmeridge 
House.  This  was  r<,  bad  sign,  to  begin  vvith;  and  I  thought 
it  more  ominous  sUll,  that  he  should  pretend,  after  dinner, 
to  fall  asleep  in  the  drawing-room,  and  that  his  eyes  should 
cunningly  follow  Laura  and  me,  when  he  thought  we  neither 
of  us  suspected  him.  I  have  never  had  any  doubt  that  his 
sudden  journey  by  himself  took  him  to  Weliningham  to 
question  Mrs.  Catherick;  but  the  experience  of  to-night  has 
made  me  fear  that  the  expedition  was  not  undertuKen  in 
\ain,  and  that  he  has  got  the  information  which  he  unques- 
tionably left  us  to  collect.  If  1  knew  where  Anne  Catherick 
was  to  be  found,  I  would  be  up  to-morrow  wilh  sunrise, 
and  warn  her. 

While  the  aspect  under  which  Sir  Percival  presented  him- 
self to-night  was  unhappily  but  too  familiar  to  me,  the 
aspect  under  which  the  Count  appeared  was,  on  the  other 
hand,  entirely  new  in  my  experience  of  him.  He  permitted 
me  this  evening  to  make  his  acquaintance,  for  the  tirat 


THE    WOMAK    m    WHITE.  279 

fcime,  in  the  character  of  a  Man  of  Sentiment — of  senti- 
ment, as  1  believe,  really  felt,  not  assumed  for  the  occasion. 

For  instance,  he  was  quiet  and  subdued;  his  eyes  and 
his  voice  expressed  a  restrained  sensibility.  He  wore  (as  if 
there  was  some  hidden  connection  between  his  showiest 
finery  and  his  deepest  feeling)  the  most  magnificent  waist- 
coat he  has  yet  appeared  in — it  was  made  of  pale  sea-green 
silk,  and  delicately  trimmed  with  fine  silver  braid.  His 
voice  sunk  into  the  tenderest  inflections,  his  smile  expressed 
a  thoughtful,  fatherly  admiration  whenever  he  spoke  to 
Laura  or  to  me.  He  pressed  his  wife's  hand  under  the 
table  when  she  thanked  him  for  trifling  little  attentions  at 
dinner.  He  took  wine  with  her.  "  Your  health  and  hap' 
piness,  my  angel!"  he  said,  with  fond  glistening  eyes.  He 
eat  little  or  nothing;  and  sighed,  and  said  "  Good  Perci- 
val!"  when  his  friend  laughed  at  him.  After  dinner,  he 
took  Laura  by  the  hand,  and  asked  her  if  she  would  be  "  so 
sweet  as  to  play  to  him."  She  complied,  through  sheer 
astonishment.  He  sat  by  the  piano,  with  his  watch-chain 
resting  in  folds,  like  a  golden  serpent,  on  the  sea-green 
protuberance  of  his  waistcoat.  His  immense  head  lay 
languidly  on  one  side;  and  he  gently  beat  time  with  two  of 
his  yellow-white  fingers.  He  highly  approved  of  the  music, 
and  tenderly  admired  Laura's  manner  of  playing — not  as 
poor  Hartright  used  to  praise  it,  with  an  innocent  enjoy- 
ment of  the  sweet  sounds,  but  with  a  clear,  cultivated, 
practical  knowledge  of  the  merits  of  the  composition,  in 
the  first  place,  and  of  the  merits  of  the  pla5'er's  touch,  in 
the  second.  As  the  evening  closed  in,  he  begged  that  the 
lovely  dying  light  might  not  be  profaned,  just  yet,  by  the 
appearance  of  the  lamps.  He  came,  with  his  horribly  si- 
lent tread,  to  the  distant  window  at  which  1  was  standing, 
to  be  out  of  his  way  and  to  avoid  the  very  sight  of  him  — 
he  came  to  ask  me  to  support  his  protest  against  the  lamps. 
If  any  one  of  them  could  only  have  burned  him  up  at  that 
moment,  1  would  have  gone  down  to  the  kitchen  and 
fetched  it  myself. 

"  Surely  you  like  this  modest,  trembling  English  twi- 
light?" he  said,  softly.  "Ah!  Hove  it.  I  feel  my  inborn 
admiration  of  all  that  is  noble  and  great  and  good,  purified 
by  the  breath  of  Heaven,  on  an  evening  like  this.  Nature 
has  such  imperishable  charms,  such  inextinguishable  ten- 
dernesses for  me!     1  am  an  old,  fat  man:  talk  which  would 


360  THli!    WOAlAlsr    IN    WHITE. 

become  your  lips,  Miss  Halconibe,  sounds  like  a  derision 
and  a  mockery  on  mine.  It  is  hard  to  be  laughed  at  in  my 
moments  of  sentiment,  as  if  my  soul  was  like  myself,  old 
and  overgrown.  Observe,  dear  lady,  what  a  light  is  dying 
ou  the  trees!  Does  it  penetrate  your  heart  as  it  penetrates 
mine?" 

He  paused — looked  at  me — and  repeated  the  famous 
lines  of  Dante  on  the  Evening-time,  with  a  melody  and 
tenderness  which  added  a  charm  of  their  own  to  the  match- 
less beauty  of  the  poetry  itself. 

'"'  Bah!"  he  cried,  suddenly,  as  the  last  cadence  of  those 
noble  Italian  words  die  away  on  his  lips;  "  I  make  an  old 
fool  of  myself,  and  only  weary  you  all!  Let  us  shut  up 
the  window  in  our  bosoms  and  get  back  to  the  matter-of- 
fact  world.  Percival!  I  sanction  the  admission  of  the 
lamps.  Lady  Glyde — Miss  Halcombe — Eleanor,  my  good 
wife — which  of  you  will  indulge  me  with  a  game  at  dom- 
inoes?" 

He  addressed  us  all;  but  he  looked  especially  at  Laura. 

She  had  learned  to  feel  my  dread  of  offending  him,  and 
she  accepted  his  proposal.  It  was  more  than  I  could  have 
done  at  that  moment.  I  could  not  have  sat  down  at  the 
same  table  with  him  for  any  consideration.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  reach  my  inmost  soul  through  the  thickening 
obscurity  of  the  twilight.  His  voice  trembled  along  every 
nerve  in  my  body,  and  turned  me  hot  and  cold  alternately. 
The  mystery  and  terror  of  my  dream,  which  had  haunted 
me  at  intervals  all  through  the  evening,  now  oppressed  my 
mind  with  an  unendurable  foreboding  and  an  unutterable 
awe.  I  saw  the  white  tomb  again,  and  the  veiled  woman 
rising  out  of  it,  by  Hartright's  side.  The  thought  of 
Laura  welled  up  like  a  spring  in  the  depths  of  my  heart, 
and  filled  it  with  waters  of  bitterness,  never,  never  known 
to  it  before.  I  caught  her  by  the  hand,  as  she  passed  me 
ou  her  way  to  the  table,  and  kissed  her  as  if  that  night 
was  to  part  us  forever.  While  they  were  all  gazing  at  me 
in  astonishment,  I  ran  out  through  the  low  window  which 
was  open  before  me  to  the  ground — ran  out  to  hide  from 
them  in  the  darkness;  to  hide  even  from  myself. 

We  separated,  that  evening,  later  than  usual.  Toward 
midnight  the  summer  silence  was  broken  by  the  shudder- 
ing of  a  low,  melancholy  wind  among  the  trees.     We  all 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  281 

felt  the  sudden  chill  in  the  atmosphere;  but  the  Count 
was  the  first  to  notice  the  stealthy  rising  of  the  wind.  He 
stopped  while  he  was  lighting  my  candle  for  me,  and  held 
up  his  hand  warningly: 

"Listen!"  he  said.     "There  will  be  a  change  to-mor- 
row." 


Vll. 


June  19lli. — The  events  of  yesterday  warned  me  to  be 
ready,  sooner  or  later,  to  meet  the  worst.  To-day  is  not 
yet  at  an  end;  and  the  worst  has  come. 

Judging  by  the  closest  calculation  of  time  that  Laura 
and  I  could  make,  we  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  Anne 
Catherick  must  have  appeared  at  the  boat-house  at  half 
past  two  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  yesterday.  I  accord- 
ingly arranged  that  Laura  should  just  show  herself  at  the 
luncheon-table  to-day,  and  should  then  slip  out  at  the  first 
opportunity,  leaving  me  behind  to  preserve  appearances, 
and  to  follow  her  as  soon  as  1  could  safely  do  so.  This 
mode  of  proceeding,  if  no  obstacle  occurred  to  thwart  us, 
would  enable  her  to  be  at  the  boat-house  before  half  past 
two,  and  (when  I  left  the  table,  in  my  turn)  would  take 
me  to  a  safe  position  in  the  plantation  before  three. 

The  change  in  the  weather,  which  last  night's  wind 
warned  us  to  expect,  came  with  the  morning.  It  was 
raining  heavily  when  1  got  up,  and  it  continued  to  rain 
until  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  clouds  dispersed,  the  blue 
sky  appeared,  and  the  sun  shone  again  with  the  bright 
promise  of  a  fine  afternoon. 

My  anxiety  to  know  how  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count 
would  occupy  the  early  part  of  the  day  was  by  no  means 
set  at  rest,  so  far  as  Sir  Percival  was  concerned,  by  his  leav- 
ing us  immediately  after  breakfast  and  going  out  by  him- 
self, in  spite  of  the  rain.  He  neither  told  us  where  he 
was  going  nor  when  we  might  expect  him  back.  We  saw 
him  pass  the  breakfast-room  window  hastily,  with  his  high 
boots  and  his  water-proof  coat  on — and  that  was  all. 

The  Count  passed  the  morning  quietly  indoors,  some  part 
of  it  in  the  library,  some  part  in  the  drawing-room,  play- 
ing odds  and  ends  of  music  on  the  piano,  and  humming  to 
himself.  Judging  by  appearances,  the  sentimental  side  of 
his  character  was  persistently  inclined  to  betray  itself  still. 


28:^  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Be  was  silent  and  sensitive,  and  ready  to  sigh  and  languish 
ponderously  (as  only  fat  men  can  sigh  and  languish)  on 
the  smallest  provocation. 

Luncheon-time  came,  and  Sir  Percival  did  not  return. 
The  Count  took  his  friend's  place  at  the  table,  plaintively 
devoured  the  greater  part  of  a  fruit  tart  submerged  under 
a  whole  jug  full  of  cream,  and  explained  the  full  merit  of 
the  achievement  to  us  as  soon  as  he  had  done.  "  A  taste 
for  sweets,^'  he  said,  m  his  softest  tones  and  his  tenderest 
manner,  "  is  the  innocent  taste  of  women  and  children.  I 
love  to  share  it  with  them — it  is  another  bond,  dear  ladies^ 
between  you  and  me." 

Laura  left  the  table  in  ten  minutes'  time.  1  was  sorely 
tempted  to  accompany  her.  But  if  we  had  both  gone  out 
together,  we  must  have  excited  suspicion;  and,  worse  still, 
if  we  allowed  Anne  Catherick  to  see  Laura  accompanied  by 
a  second  person  who  was  a  stranger  to  her,  we  should  in 
all  probability  forfeit  her  confidence  from  that  moment, 
never  to  regain  it  again. 

I  waited,  therefore,  as  patiently  as  I  could,  until  the  serv' 
ant  came  in  to  clear  the  table.  When  I  quitted  the  room 
there  were  no  signs,  in  the  house  or  out  of  it,  of  Sir  Perci- 
val's  return.  1  left  the  Count  with  a  piece  of  sugar  be- 
tween his  lips,  and  the  vicious  cockatoo  scrambling  up  his 
waistcoat  to  get  at  it;  while  Mme.  Fosco,  sitting  opposite 
to  her  husband,  watched  the  proceedings  of  his  bird  and 
himself  as  attentively  as  if  she  had  never  seen  anything  of 
the  sort  before  in  her  life.  On  the  way  to  the  plantation 
1  kept  carefully  beyond  the  range  of  view  from  the  lunch- 
eon-room window.  Nobody  saw  me  and  nobody  followed 
me.  It  was  then  a  quarter  to  three  o'clock  by  my  watch. 
I  Once  among  the  trees,  I  walked  rapidly,  until  1  had  ad- 
vanced more  than  half-way  through  the  plantation.  At 
that  point  1  slackened  my  pace,  and  proceeded  cautiously; 
but  I  saw  no  one,  and  heard  no  voices.  By  little  and  little, 
I  came  within  view  of  the  back  of  the  boat-house — stopped 
and  listened — then  went  on,  till  1  was  close  behind  it,  and 
must  have  heard  any  persons  who  were  talking  inside. 
Still  the  silence  was  unbroken:  still,  far  and  near,  no  sign 
of  a  living  creature  appeared  anywhere. 

After  skirting  round  by  the  back  of  the  building,  first 
on  one  side,  and  then  on  the  other,  and  making  no  discov- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  283 

eries,  I  ventured  in  front  of  it,  and  fairly  looked  in.  Tiie 
place  was  empt^^ 

I  called  '*  Laura!" — at  first,  softly— then  louder  and 
louder.  No  one  answered,  and  no  one  appeared,  /or  all 
that  I  could  see  and  hear,  the  only  human  creature  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  lake  and  the  plantation  was  myself. 

My  heart  began  to  beat  violently,  but  1  kept  my  resolu- 
tion," and  searched,  first  the  boat-house,  and  then  the 
ground  in  front  of  it,  for  any  signs  which  might  show  me 
whether  Laura  had  really  reached  the  place  or  not.  IS'o 
mark  of  her  presence  appeared  inside  the  building,  but  1 
found  traces  of  her  outside  it,  in  footsteps  on  the  sand. 
1  detected  the  footsteps  of  two  persons — large  footsteps,  like 
a  man's,  and  small  footsteps,  which,  by  putting  my  own 
feet  into  them  and  testitig  their  size  in  that  manner,  I  felt 
certain  were  Laura's.  The  ground  was  confusedly  marked 
in  this  way,  just  before  the  boat-house.  Close  against  one 
side  of  it,  under  shelter  of  the  projecting  roof,  I  discovered 
a  little  hole  in  the  sand — a  hole  artificially  made,  beyond  a 
doubt.  I  just  noticed  it,  and  then  turned  away  immedi- 
ately to  trace  the  footsteps  as  far  as  I  could,  and  to  follow 
the  direction  in  which  they  might  lead  me. 

They  led  me,  starting  from  the  left-hand  side  of  the  boat- 
house,  along  the  edge  of  the  trees,  a  distance,  I  should 
think,  of  between  two  and  three  hundred  yards — and  then 
the  sandy  ground  showed  no  further  trace  of  them.  Feel- 
ing that  the  persons  whose  course  I  was  tracking  must  nec- 
essarily have  entered  the  plantation  at  this  point,  I  entered  it 
too.  At  first  1  could  find  no  path,  but  I  discovered  one  after- 
ward, just  faintly  traced  among  the  trees,  and  followed  it. 
It  took  me,  for  some  distance,  in  the  direction  of  the  vil- 
lage, until  I  stopped  at  a  point  where  another  foot-track 
crossed  it.  The  brambles  grew  thickly  on  either  side  of  this 
second  path.  I  stood,  looki?ig  down  it,  uncertain  which 
way  to  take  next,  and  while  I  looked  1  saw  on  one  thorny 
bush  some  fragments  of  fringe  from  a  woman's  shawl.  A 
closer  examination  of  the  fringe  satisfied  me  that  it  had  been 
torn  from  a  shawl  of  Laura's,  and  1  instantly  followed  the 
second  path.  It  brought  me  out,  at  last,  to  my  great  relief, 
at  the  back  of  the  house.  I  say  to  my  great  relief,  be- 
cause I  inferred  that  Laura  must,  for  some  unknown  reason, 
have  returned  before  me  by  this  roundabout  way.  I  went 
iu  by   the  court-yard  and  the  offices.     The  first  person 


284  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

whom  I  met  in  crossing  the  servants'  hall  was  Mrs.  Mich- 
elson,  the  housekeeper. 

"  Do  you  know/'  1  asked,  "  whether  Lady  Glyde  has 
come  in  from  her  walk  or  not?" 

"  My  lady  came  in  a  little  while  ago,  with  Sir  Percival," 
answered  the  housekeeper.  "  1  am  afraid,  Miss  Halcombe, 
something  very  distressing  has  happened.'* 

My  heart  sunk  within  me.  "  You  don't  mean  an  acci- 
dent?" 1  said,  faintly. 

"  No,  no — thank  God,  no  accident.  But  my  lady  ran 
upstairs  to  her  own  room  in  tears,  and  Sir  Percival  has 
ordered  me  to  give  Fanny  warning  to  leave  in  an  hour's 
time." 

Fanny  was  Laura's  maid ;  a  good,  affectionate  girl,  who 
had  been  with  her  for  years — the  only  person  in  the  house 
whose  fidelity  and  devotion  we  could  both  depend  on. 

"  Where  is  Fanny?"  I  inquired. 

"  In  my  room,  Miss  Halcombe.  The  young  woman  is 
quite  overcome;  and  1  told  her  to  sit  down,  and  try  to  re- 
cover herself. " 

1  went  to  Mrs.  Michelson's  room,  and  found  Fanny  in  a 
corner,  with  her  box  by  her  side,  crying  bitterly. 

She  could  give  me  no  explanation  whatever  of  her  sud- 
den dismissal.  Sir  Percival  had  ordered  that  she  should 
have  a  month's  wages,  in  place  of  a  month's  warning,  and 
go.  No  reason  had  been  as^iigned;  no  objection  had  been 
made  to  her  conduct.  She  had  been  forbidden  to  appeal 
to  her  mistress,  forbidden  even  to  see  her  for  a  moment  to 
say  good-bye.  She  was  to  go  without  explanations  or  fare- 
wells— and   to  go  at  once. 

After  soothing  the  poor  girl  by  a  few  friendly  words,  1 
»sked  where  she  proposed  to  sleep  that  night.  Slie  replied 
that  she  thought  of  going  to  the  little  inn  in  the  village, 
the  landlady  of  which  was  a  respectable  woman,  known  to 
the  servants  at  Black  water  Park.  The  next  morning,  b;, 
leaving  early,  she  might  get  back  to  her  friends  in  Cum 
berland,  without  stopping  in  Loadon,  where  she  was  a  total 
stranger. 

I  felt  directly  that  Fanny's  departure  offered  us  a  safe 
means  of  communication  with  London  and  with  Limme- 
ridge  House,  of  which  it  might  be  very  important  to  avail 
ourselves.  Accordingly,  I  told  her  that  she  might  expoet 
to  hear  fioui  her  mistress  or  from  me  :ii  the  course  of  the 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  285 

evening,  and  that  she  might  depund  on  our  both  Joing  all 
that  lay  in  our  power  to  help  her,  under  the  trial  of  leaving 
us  for  the  present.  Those  words  said,  1  shook  hands  with 
her  and  went  upstairs. 

The  door  which  led  to  Laura's  room  was  the  door  of  an 
ante-chamber  opening  on  to  the  passage.  When  I  tried  it, 
it  was  bolted  on  the  insiile. 

I  knocked,  and  th.e  door  was  opened  by  the  same  heavy, 
overgrown  house-maid  whose  lumpish  insensibility  had 
tried  my  patience  so  severely  on  the  day  when  I  found  the 
wounded  dog.  I  had  since  that  time  discovered  that  her 
name  was  Margaret  Porcher,  and  that  she  was  the  most 
awkward,  slatternly,  and  obstinate  servant  in  the  house. 

On  opening  the  door  she  instantly  stepped  out  to  the 
threshold,  and  stood  grinning  at  me  in  stolid  silence. 

"  Why  do  you  stand  there?"  I  said.  "  Don't  you  see 
that  I  want  to  come  in?" 

"  Ah,  but  you  mustn't  come  in,"  was  the  answer,  with 
another  and  a  broader  grin  still. 

"  Hotv  dare  you  talk  to  me  in  that  way?  Stand  back 
instantly!"  . 

She  stretched  out  a  great  red  hand  and  arm  on  each  side 
of  her,  so  as  to  bar  the  door-way,  and  slowly  nodded  iier 
addled  head  at  me. 

"  Master's  orders,"  she  said,  and  nodded  again. 

1  had  need  of  all  my  self-control  to  warn  me  against  con- 
testing the  matter  with  her,  and  to  remind  me  that  the 
next  words  I  had  to  say  must  be  addressed  to  her  master. 
I  turned  my  back  on  her,  and  instantly  went  down-stairs 
to  find  him.  My  resolution  to  keep  my  temper  under  all 
the  irritations  that  Sir  Percival  could  offer,  was,  by  this 
time,  as  completely  forgotten — I  say  to  my  shame — as  if 
I  had  never  made  it.  It  did  me  good — after  all  I  had 
suffered  and  suppressed  in  that  liouse — it  actually  did  me 
good  to  feel  how  angry  I  was. 

The  drawing-room  and  the  breakfast-room  were  both 
empty.  I  went  on  to  the  library;  and  there  I  found  Sir 
Percival,  the  Count,  and  Mme.  Fosco.  They  were  all 
three  standing  up  close  together,  and  Sir  Percival  had  a 
little  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand.  As  I  opened  the  door,  1 
heard  the  Count  say  to  him,  "  No — a  thousand  times  over, 
no." 


286  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE, 

1  walked  straight  up  to  him,  and  looked  him  full  in  the 
face. 

*'  Am  I  to  understand,  Sir  Percival,  that  your  wife's 
room  is  a  prison,  and  that  your  house-maid  is  the  jailer 
who  keeps  it?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  you  are  to  understand,"  he  answered. 
"  Take  care  my  jailer  iiasn't  got  double  duty  to  do — take 
care  your  room  is  not  a  prison  too." 

"  Take  you  care  how  you  treat  your  wife,  and  how  yoq 
threaten  pie,"  I  broke  out,  in  the  heat  of  my  anger. 
"  There  are  laws  in  England  to  protect  women  from  cru- 
elty and  outrage.  If  you  hurt  a  hair  of  Laura's  head,  ii 
you  dare  to  interfere  with  my  freedom,  come  what  may,  to 
those  laws  I  will  appeal." 

Instead  of  answering  me,  lie  turned  round  to  the  Count. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you?"  he  asked.     "  What  do  you  sa^ 


now 


'r"' 


"  What  I  said  before,"  replied  the  Count—"  No." 

Even  in  the  vehemence  of  my  auger,  I  felt  his  calm, 
cold,  gray  eyes  on  my  face.  They  turned  away  from  ma 
as  soon  as  he  had  spoken,  and  looked  significantly  at  his 
wife.  Mnie.  Fosco  immediately  moved  close  to  my  side, 
and,  in  that  position,  addressed  Sir  Percival  before  either 
of  us  could  speak  again. 

"  Favor  me  wiili  your  attention  for  one  moment,"  she 
said,  in  her  clear  icily  suppressed  tones.  "  1  have  to  thank 
you.  Sir  Percival,  for  your  hospitality,  and  to  decline  tak- 
ing advantage  of  it  any  longer.  I  remain  in  no  house  in 
which  ladies  are  treated  as  your  wife  and  Miss  Halcombe 
have  been  treated  here  to-day!" 

Sir  Percival  drew  back  a  step,  rnd  stared  at  her  in  dead 
silence.  The  declaration  he  hud  just  heard— a  declaration 
which  ho  well  knew,  as  1  well  knew,  Mmo.  Fosco  would 
not  have  ventured  to  make  without  her  husband's  permis- 
sion— seemed  to  petrify  him  with  surprise.  The  Count  stood 
by,  and  looked  at  his  wife  with  the*most  enthusiastic  ad' 
miration. 

"  She  is  sublime!"  he  said  to  himself.  He  approached 
her,  while  he  spoke,  and  drew  her  hand/hrougli  his  arm. 
"  I  am  at  your  service,  Eleanor,"  he  went  on,  with  a  quiet 
dignity  that  1  had  never  noticed  in  him  before.  "  And  at 
Miss  Halcombe 's  service,  if  sIk^  will  honor  me  by  accepting 
all  the  assistance  I  can  ofifer  her." 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  287 

*'  D — n  it!  what  do  you  meau?"  cried  Sir  Percival,  as 
the  Count  quietly  moved  away,  with  his  wife,  to  the  door. 

"  At  other  times  I  mean  what  I  say,  hut  at  this  time  I 
meau  what  my  wife  says,"  replied  the  impenetrable  Italian. 
"  We  have  changed  places,  Percival  fa*  once,  and  Madame 
Fosco's  opinion  is — mine." 

Sir  Percival  crumpled  up  the  paper  in  his  hand,  and, 
pushing  passed  the  Count  with  another  oath,  stood  between 
him  and  the  door. 

"  Have  your  own  way,"  he  said,  with  baffled  rage  in  hi*. 
low,  half-whispering  tones.  "  Have  your  own  way — ani 
see  what  comes  of  it. "    With  those  words  he  left  the  room. 

Mme.  Fosco  glanced  inquiringly  at  her  husband.  "  He 
has  gone  away  very  suddenly,"  she  said.  "  What  does  it 
mean?" 

"  It  means  that  you  and  I  together  have  brought  the  worst- 
tempered  man  in  all  England  to  his  senses,"  answered  the 
Count.  "  It  means.  Miss  Halcombe,  that  Lady  Clyde  is 
relieved  from  a  gross  indignity,  and  you  the  repetition  of 
an  unpardonable  insult.  Suffer  me  to  express  my  admira- 
tion of  your  conduct  and  your  courage  at  a  very  trying 
moment." 

"  Sincere  admiration,"  suggested  Mme.  Fosco. 

*'  Sincere  admiration,"  echoed  the  Count. 

I  had  no  longer  the  strength  of  my  first  angry  resistance 
to  outrage  and  injury  to  support  me.  My  heartsick  anx- 
iety to  see  Laura;  my  sense  of  my  own  helpless  ignorance 
of  what  had  happened  at  the  boat-house,  pressed  on  me 
with  an  intolerable  weight.  I  tried  to  keep  up  appear- 
ances, by  speaking  to  the  Count  and  his  wife  in  the  tone 
which  they  had  chosen  to  adopt  in  speaking  to  me.  But 
the  words  failed  on  my  lips — my  breath  came  short  and 
thick — my  eyes  looked  longingly,  in  silence,  at  the  door. 
The  Count,  understanding  my  anxiety,  opened  it,  went 
out,  and  pulled  it  after  him.  At  the  same  time  Sir  Perci- 
vaFa  heavy  step  descended  the  stairs.  I  htard  them  whis- 
pering together  outside,  while  Mme.  Fosco  was  assuring 
me  in  her  calmest  and  most  conventional  manner  that  she 
rejoiced,  for  all  our  sakes,  that  Sir  Percival's  conduct  had 
not  obliged  her  husband  and  herself  to  leave  Black  water 
Park.  Before  she  had  done  speaking,  the  whispering 
ceased,  the  door  opened,  and  the  Count  looked  in. 

"  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said,  "  1  am  ha^jpy  to  inform  you 


288  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

that  Lady  Glyde  is  mistress  again  in  her  own  house.  ^ 
thought  it  might  be  more  agreeable  to  you  to  hear  of  thio 
change  Tor  the  better  from  me  than  from  Sir  Percival, 
and  1  have  therefore  expressly  returned  to  mention  it." 

"Admirable  delicacy!'^  said  Mme.  Fosco,  paying  back 
her  husband's  tribute  of  admiration  with  the  Count's  own 
coin,  in  the  Count's  own  manner.  He  smiled  and  bowed 
as  if  he  had  received  a  formal  compliment  from  a  polite 
stranger,  and  drew  back  to  let  me  pass  out  first. 

Sir  Percival  was  standing  in  the  hall.  As  1  hurried  to  the 
stairs  I  heard  him  call  impatiently  to  the  Count  to  come 
out  of  the  library. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for  there?"  he  said;  "  I  want  to 
speak  to  you. " 

"  And  I  want  to  think  a  little  by  myself,*^  replied  the 
other.     "  Wait  till  later,  Percival — wait  till  later." 

Neither  he  nor  his  friend  said  any  more.  I  gained  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  and  ran  along  the  passage.  In  my  haste 
and  my  agitation  1  left  the  door  of  the  ante-chamber  open, 
but  I  closed  the  door  of  the  bedroom  the  moment  1  was  in- 
side it. 

Laura  was  sitting  alone  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  her 
arms  resting  wearily  on  a  table,  and  her  face  hidden  in  her 
hands.  She  started  up,  with  a  cry  of  delight,  when  she 
saw  me. 

"  How  did  you  get  here?"  she  asked.  "  Who  gave  you 
leave?    Not  Sir  Percival?" 

In  my  overpowering  anxiety  to  hear  what  she  had  to  tell 
me,  I  could  not  answer  her — I  could  only  put  questions,  on 
my  side.  Laura's  eagerness  to  know  what  had  passed 
down-stairs  proved,  however,  too  strong  to  be  resisted.  She 
persistently  repeated  her  inquiries. 

"  The  Count,  of  course,"  I  answered,  impatiently. 
*'  Whose  influence  in  the  house — ?" 

She  stopped  me,  with  a  gesture  of  disgust. 

"  Don't  speak  of  him,"  she  cried.  "  The  Count  is  the 
vilest  creature  breathing!  The  Count  is  a  miserable 
Spy-!" 

J3efore  we  could  either  of  us  say  another  word  we  were 
alarmed  by  a  soft  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  bedroom. 

I  had  not  yet  sat  down,  and  I  went  first  to  see  who  it 
was.  When  I  opened  the  door  Mme.  Fosco  confronted  me, 
with  my  handkerchief  iu  her  hand. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  289 

"  You  dropped  this  dowa-stairs,  Miss  Ilalcoaibe,"  siie 
^aid,  "  and  I  thonght  I  could  bring  it  to  you,  as  1  was 
passing  by  to  my  own  room. " 

Her  face,  naturally  pale,  had  turned  to  such  a  ghastly 
whiteness  that  1  started  at  the  sight  of  it.  Her  hands,  so 
sure  and  steady  at  all  other  times,  trembled  violently,  and 
her  eyes  looked  wolfishly  past  me  through  the  open  door, 
and  tixed  on  Laura. 

She  had  been  listening  before  she  knocked!  1  saw  it  in 
iier  white  face;  I  saw  it  in  her  U'embling  hands;  1  saw  it 
in  her  look  at  Laura. 

After  waiting  an  instant,  she  turned  from  me  in  silence, 
and  slowly  walked  away. 

I  closed  the  door  again.  "  Oh,  Laura!  I^aura!  We  shall 
both  rue  the  day  when  you  called  the  Count  a  Spy!'^ 

"  You  would  have  called  him  so  yourself,  Marian,  if  you 
had  had  known  what  I  know.  Anne  Catherick  was  right. 
There  loas  a  third  person  watching  us  in  the  plantation 
yesterday,  and  that  third  person — " 

"  Are  you  sure  it  was  the  Count?" 

"  I  am  absolutely  certain.  He  was  Sir  Percival's  spy — 
he  was  Sir  Percival's  informer — he  set  Sir  Percival  watching 
and  waiting,  all  the  morning  through,  for  Anne  Catherick 
and  for  me." 

"  Is  Anne  found?     Did  you  see  her  at  the  lake?" 

"  No.  She  has  saved  hersc'f  by  keeping  away  from  the 
place.     When  I  got  to  the  boat-house,  no  one  was  there.'* 

"  Yes?  yes?" 

"  1  went  in,  and  sat  waiting  for  a  few  minutes.  But  my 
restlessness  made  me  get  up  again,  to  walk  about  a  little. 
As  I  passed  out,  I  saw  some  marks  on  the  sand,  close 
under  the  front  of  the  boat-house.  1  stooped  down  to  ex- 
amine them,  and  discovered  a  word  written  in  large  letters 
on  the  sand.     The  word  was — look." 

"  And  you  scraped  away  the  sand,  and  dug  a  hollow 
place  in  it?" 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  Marian?" 

"  I  saw  the  hollow  place  myself,  when  I  followed  you  to 
the  boat-house.     Go  on — go  on!" 

"  Yes,  I  scraped  away  the  sand  o)i  the  surface,  and  in  a 
little  while  1  came  to  a  strip  of  paper  hidden  beneath, 
which  had  writing  on  it.  The  writing  was  signod  with 
Anne  Catherick's  initials.  " 

10 


200  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

*-  Where  is  it?'* 

*'  Sir  Percival  has  taken  it  from  me." 

"  Can  you  remember  what  the  writing  was?  Do  yoB 
think  you  can  repeat  it  to  me?'' 

"  1  substance  I  can,  Marian.  It  was  very  short.  You 
would  have  remembered  it  word  for  word.'* 

"  Try  to  tell  me  what  the  substance  was,  before  we  go 
any  further. " 

She  complied.  I  write  the  lines  down  here,  exactly  as 
she  repeated  them  to  me.     They  ran  thus: 

"  I  was  seen  with  you,  yesterday,  by  a  tall  stout  old  man, 
and  had  to  run  to  save  myself.  He  was  not  quick  enough 
on  his  feet  to  follow  me,  and  he  lost  me  among  the  trees. 
I  dare  not  risk  coming  back  here  to-day,  at  the  same  time. 
1  write  this  and  hide  it  in  the  sand,  at  six  in  the  morn- 
ing, to  tell  you  so.  When  we  speak  next  of  your  wicked 
husband's  Secret  we  must  speak  safely  or  not  at  all.  Try 
to  have  patience.  1  promise  you  shall  see  me  again;  and 
that  soon. — A.  C" 

The  reference  to  the  "  tall  stout  old  man  "  (the  terms 
of  which  Laura  was  certain  that  she  had  repeated  to  me 
correctly)  left  no  doubt  as  to  who  the  intruder  had  been. 
I  called  to  mmd  that  I  had  told  Sir  Percival,  in  the  Count's 
presence,  the  day  before,  that  Laura  had  gone  to  the  boat- 
house  to  look  for  her  brooch.  In  all  probability  he  had 
followed  her  there,  in  his  ofiicious  way,  to  relieve  her  mind 
about  the  matter  of  the  signature,  immediately  after  he 
bad  mentioned  the  change  in  Sir  Percival's  plans  to  me  in 
the  drawing-room.  In  this  case  he  could  only  have  got 
to  the  neighborhood  of  the  boat-house  at  the  very  moment 
when  Anne  Catherick  discovered  him.  The  suspiciously 
hurried  manner  in  which  she  had  parted  from  Laura  had 
no  doubt  prompted  his  useless  attempt  to  follow  her.  Of 
the  conversation  which  had  so  previously  taken  place  be- 
tween them  he  could  have  heard  nothing.  The  distance 
between  the  house  and  the  lake,  and  the  time  at  which  he 
left  me  in  the  drawing-room,  as  compared  with  the  time 
at  which  Laura  and  Anne  Catherick  had  been  speaking 
together,  proved  that  fact  to  us,  at  any  rate,  beyona  a 
doubt. 

Having  arrived  at  something  like  a  conclusiou,  so  far, 


THE     WOMAN    IN     WHITE.  29i 

my  next  great  interest  was  to  know  what  discoveries  Sir 
Percival  had  made,  after  Count  Fosco  had  given  him  his 
information. 

"  How  came  you  to  lose  possession  of  the  letter?"  I 
asked.  "  What  did  you  do  with  it,  when  you  found  it  in 
the  sand?" 

"  After  reading  it  once  through,"  she  replied,  "  I  took 
it  into  the  boat-house  with  me,  to  sit  down  and  look  it 
over  a  second  time.  While  1  was  reading  a  shadow  fell 
across  the  paper.  I  looked  up,  and  saw  Sir  Percival  stand- 
ing in  the  door- way  watching  me." 

"  Did  you  try  to  hide  the  letter?" 

*'  I  tried;  but  he  stopped  me.  '  You  needn't  trouble  to 
hide  that,'  he  said.  '  1  liappjn  to  have  read  it.'  I  could 
only  look  at  him  helplessly — I  could  say  nothmg.  '  You 
understand?'  he  went  on;  '1  have  read  it.  I  dug  it  up 
out  of  the  sand  two  hours  since,  and  buried  it  agam,  and 
wrote  the  word  above  it  again,  and  left  it  ready  to  your 
hands.  Y^'ou  can't  lie  yourself  out  of  the  scrape  now.  You 
saw  Anne  Catherick  in  secret  yesterday,  and  you  have 
got  her  letter  in  your  hand  at  this  moment.  I  have  not 
caught  Iter  yet,  but  I  have  caught  yuu.  Give  me  the  let- 
ter.' He  stepped  close  up  to  me — I  was  alone  with  him, 
Marian — what  could  I  do? — I  gave  him  the  letter." 

"  What  did  he  say  when  you  gave  it  to  him?" 

"  At  first  he  said  nothing.  He  took  me  by  the  arm,  and 
led  me  out  of  the  boat-house,  and  looked  about  him,  on  all 
sides,  as  if  he  was  afraid  of  our  being  seen  or  heard.  Then, 
he  clasped  his  hand  fast  round  my  arm,  and  whispered  to 
me,  '  What  did  Anne  Catherick  say  to  you  yesterday.'' — I 
insist  on  hearing  every  word,  from  first  to  last.'  " 

"Did  you  tell  him?" 

"  1  was  alone  with  him,  Marian — his  cruel  hand  was 
bruising  ray  arm— what  could  I  do?" 

"  Is  the  mark  on  your  arm  still?     Let  me  see  it.'* 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  see  it?" 

"  1  want  to  see  it,  Laura,  because  our  endurance  must 
end,  and  our  resistance  must  begin,  to-day.  That  mark  is 
a  weapon  to  strike  him  with.  Let  me  see  it  now — 1  may 
have  to  swear  to  it  at  some  future  time." 

"  Oh,  Marian,  don't  look  so!  don't  talk  so!  It  doesn't 
hurt  me  now!" 

"  Let  me  see  it!" 


292  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

She  showed  me  the  marks.  I  was  past  grieving  over 
them,  past  crying  over  them,  past  shuddering  over  them, 
They  say  we  are  either  better  than  men,  or  worse.  IE  the 
temptation  that  has  fallen  in  some  women's  way,  and  made 
them  worse,  had  fallen  in  mine  at  that  moment —  Thank 
God!  my  face  betrayed  nothing  that  his  wife  could  read. 
The  gentle,  innocent,  affectionate  creature  thought  1  was 
frightened  for  her  and  sorry  for  her — and  thought  no  more. 

"  Don't  think  too  seriously  of  it,  Marian,"  she  said, 
simply,  as  she  pulled  her  sleeve  down  again.  "  It  doesn't 
hurt  me  now." 

"  I  will  try  to  think  quldtly  of  it,  my  love,  for  your  sake. 
Well!  well!  And  you  told  him  all  that  Anne  Catherick 
had  said  to  you — all  that  you  told  me?" 

"  Yes,  all.  He  insisted  on  it — I  was  alone  with  him — I 
could  conceal  nothing. " 

"  Did  he  say  anything  when  you  had  done?" 

*'  He  looked  at  me,  and  laughed  to  himself,  in  a  mock- 
ing, bitter  way.  '  I  mean  to  have  the  rest  out  of  you,'  he 
said;  'do  you  hear?— the  rest.'  I  declared  to  him, 
solemnly,  that  I  had  told  him  everything  I  knew.  '  Not 
you!'  he  answered,  'you  know  more  than  you  choose  to 
tell.  Won't  you  tell  it?  You  shall!  I'll  wring  it  out  of 
you  at  home,  if  1  can't  wring  it  out  of  you  here.'  He  led 
me  away  by  a  strange  path  through  the  plantation — a  path 
where  there  was  no  hope  of  our  meeting  ?/o?^ — and  ho  spoke 
no  more  till  we  came  within  sight  of  the  house.  Then  he 
stopped  again,  and  said,  '  Will  you  take  a  second  chance, 
if  I  give  it  to  you?  Will  you  think  better  of  it,  and 
tell  me  the  rest?'  I  could  only  repeat  the  same  words  I 
had  spoken  before.  He  cursed  my  obstinacy,  and  went 
on,  and  took  me  with  him  to  the  house.  '  Y'"ou  can't  de- 
ceive me,'  he  said;  '  you  know  more  than  you  choose  to  tell. 
I'll  have  your  secret  out  of  you;  and  I'll  have  it  out  of  that 
sister  of  yours,  as  well.  There  shall  be  no  more  plotting 
and  whispering  between  you.  Neither  you  nor  she  shall 
see  each  other  again  till  you  have  confessed  the  truth.  I'll 
have  you  watched  morning,  noon,  and  night,  till  you  con- 
fess the  truth.'  He  was  deaf  to  everything  I  could  say. 
He  took  me  straight  upstairs  into  my  own  room.  Fanny 
was  sitting  there,  doing  some  work  for  me,  and  he  instantly 
ordered  her  out.  '  I'll  take  good  care  you're  not  mixed  u[i 
in  the  conspiracy,'  he  said.     '  You  shall  leave  this  house 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  293 

to-day.  If  your  mistress  wants  a  maid,  she  shall  have  one 
-of  iiiy  choosing.'  He  pushed  me  into  the  room,  and  locked 
the  door  on  me — he  set  that  senseless  woman  to  watch  me 
outside — Marian!  he  looked  and  spnke  like  a  madman. 
You  may  hardly  understand  it — he  did  indeed. '^ 

"  I  do  understand  it,  Laura,  fie  is  mad — mad  with  the 
terrors  of  a  guilty  conscience.  Every  word  you  have  said 
makes  me  positively  certain  that  when  Anne  Catherick  left 
you  yesterday,  you  were  on  the  eve  of  discovering  a  secret, 
which  might  have  been  your  vile  husband's  ruin — and  he 
thinks  you  have  discovered  it.  Nothing  you  can  say  or  do 
will  quiet  that  guilty  distrust,  and  convince  his  false  nature 
of  your  truth.  I  don't  say  this,  my  love,  to  alarm  you. 
I  say  it  to  open  your  eyes  to  your  position,  and  to  convince 
yo.u  of  the  urgent  necessity  of  letting  me  act,  as  I  best  can, 
for  your  protection,  while  the  chance  is  our  own.  Count 
Fosco's  interference  has  secured  me  access  to  you  to-day, 
but  he  may  withdraw  that  interference  to-morrow.  Sir 
Percival  has  already  dismissed  Fanny,  because  she  is  a 
quick-witted  girl,  and  devotedly  attached  to  you,  and  has 
chosen  a  woman  to  take  her  place  who  cares  nothing  for 
your  interests,  and  whose  dull  nitelligence  lowers  her  to  the 
level  of  the  watch-dog  in  the  yard.  It  is  impossible  to  say 
what  violent  measures  he  may  take  next,  unless  we  make 
the  most  of  our  opportunities  while  we  have  them." 

"  What  can  we  do,  Marian.^  Oh,  if  we  could  only  leave 
this  house,  never  to  see  it  again!" 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  love,  and  try  to  think  that  you  aro 
not  quite  helpless  so  long  as  I  am  here  with  you." 

"  I  will  think  so,  1  do  think  so.  Don't  altogether  for- 
get poor  Fanny,  in  thinking  of  me.  She  wants  help  and 
comfort  too. " 

"  I  will  not  forget  her.  T  saw  her  before  I  came  up  here^ 
and  I  have  arranged  to  communicate  with  her  to-night. 
Letters  are  not  safe  in  the  post-bag  at  Biackwater  Park, 
and  1  shall  have  two  to  write  to-day,  in  your  intei-ests, 
which  must  pass  through  no  hands  but  Fanny's." 

"  What  letters?" 

"  1  mean  to  write  first,  Laura,  to  Mr.  Gilmore's  partner, 
who  has  offered  to  help  us  in  any  fresh  emergency.  Little 
as  I  know  of  the  law,  I  am  certain  that  it  can  protect  a 
woman  from  such  treatment  as  that  ruffian  has  inflicted 
on  you  to-day.     1  will  go  into  no  details  about  Anne  Cath- 


294  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

erick,  because  I  have  no  certain  information  to  give.  But 
the  lawyer  shall  know  of  those  bruises  on  your  arm,  aud 
of  the  violence  offered  to  you  in  this  room — he  shall,  be- 
fore 1  rest  to-night!" 

"  But,  think  of  the  exposure,  Marian!" 

"  I  am  calculating  on  the  exposure.  Sir  Percival  has 
more  to  dread  from  it  than  you  have.  The  prospect  of  ai: 
exposure  may  bring  him  to  terms  when  nothing  else  will." 

1  rose  as  1  spoke,  but  Lau-ra  entreated  me  not  to  leavQ 
her. 

"  You  will  drive  him  to  desperation,"  she  said,  "  an^ 
increase  our  dangers  tenfold." 

I  felt  the  truth— the  disheartening  truth — of  those  words. 
But  1  could  not  bring  myself  plainly  to  acknowledge  it  to 
her.  In  our  dreadful  position  there  was  no  help  and  no 
hope  for  us  but  in  risking  the  worst.  I  said  so,  in  guarded 
terms.  She  sighed  bitterly,  but  did  not  contest  the  mat- 
ter. She  only  asked  about  the  second  letter  that  I  had 
proposed  writing.     To  whom  was  it  to  be  addressed? 

"  To  Mr.  Fairlie,"  1  said.  "  Your  uncle  is  your  nearest 
male  relative,  and  the  head  of  the  family.  He  must  and 
shall  interfere." 

Laura  shook  her  head  sorrowfully. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  1  went  on,  "  your  uncle  is  a  weak,  selfish, 
worldly  man,  I  know.  But  he  is  not  Sir  Percival  Glyde, 
and  he  has  no  such  friend  about  him  as  Count  Fosco.  1 
expect  nothing  from  his  kindness,  or  his  tenderness  of  feel- 
ing toward  you,  or  toward  me.  But  he  will  do  anything 
to  pamper  his  own  indolence  and  to  secure  his  own  quiet. 
Let  me  only  persuade  him  that  his  interference  at  this  mo- 
ment will  save  him  inevitable  trouble  and  wretchedness 
and  responsibility  hereafter,  and  he  will  bestir  himself  for 
his  own  sake.  I  know  how  to  deal  with  him,  Laura — 1 
have  had  some  practice." 

"  If  you  could  only  prevail  on  him  to  let  me  go  back  to 
Limmeridge  for  a  little  while,  and  stay  there  quietly  with 
you,  Marian,  I  could  be  almost  as  happy  again  as  I  was  be- 
fore I  was  married!" 

Those  words  set  me  thinking  in  a  new  direction.  Would 
]t  be  possible  to  place  Sir  Percival  between  the  two  alter- 
natives of  either  exposing  himself  to  the  scandal  of  legal  in- 
terference on  his  wife's  behalf,  or  of  allowing  her  to  be 
quietly  separated   from  him  for  a  time,  under  pretext  of  a 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  295 

visit  to  her  uncle's  house?  And  could  he,  in  that  case,  hv 
reckoned  on  as  likely  to  accept  the  last  resource?  It  was 
doubtful — more  than  doubtful.  And  yet,  hopeless  as  the 
experiment  seemed,  surely  it  was  worth  trying?  1  resolved 
to  try  it,  in  sheer  despair  of  knowing  what  better  to  do. 

"  Your  uncle  shall  know  the  wish  you  have  just  ex- 
pressed," I  said;  "  and  1  will  ask  the  lawyer's  advice  on 
the  subject,  as  well.  Good  may  come  of  it — and  will  come 
of  it,  I  hope." 

Saying  that,  I  rose  again,  and  again  Laura  tried  to  make 
me  resume  my  seat. 

"  Don't  leave  me,"  she  said,  uneasily.  *'  My  desk  is  on 
liiat  table.     You  can  write  here." 

It  tried  me  to  the  quick  to  refuse  her,  even  in  her  own 
interests.  But  we  had  been  too  long  shut  up  alone  to- 
gether already.  Our  chance  of  seeing  each  other  again 
might  entirely  depend  on  our  not  exciting  any  fresh  suspi- 
cions. It  was  full  time  to  show  myself,  quietly  and  uncon- 
cernedly, among  the  wretches  who  were  at  that  very  mo- 
ment, perhaps,  thinking  of  us  and  talking  of  us  down-stairs. 
I  explained  tiie  miserable  necessity  to  Laura,  and  prevailed 
on  her  to  recognize  it,  as  1  did. 

"  I  will  come  back  again,  love,  in  an  hour  or  less,"  I 
said.  "  The  worst  is  over  for  to-day.  Keep  yourself  quiet, 
and  fear  nothing." 

"  Is  the  key  in  the  door,  Marian?  Can  I  lock  it  on  the 
inside?" 

"  Y^es,  here  is  the  key.  Lock  the  door,  and  open  it  to 
jiobody  until  I  come  upstairs  again." 

I  kissed  her,  and  left  her.  It  was  a  relief  to  me,  as  I 
walked  away,  to  hear  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  and  to 
know  that  the  door  was  at  her  own  command. 


VIIL 


June  IWi. — I  had  only  got  as  far  as  the  top  of  the  stairt* 
when  the  locking  of  Laura's  door  suggested  to  me  the  pre- 
caution of  also  locking  my  own  door,  and  keeping  the  key 
safely  about  me  while  I  was  out  of  the  room.  My  journal 
was  already  secured,  with  other  papers,  in  the  table-diawer, 
but  my  writing  materials  were  left  out.  These  included  a 
seal,  bearing  the  common  device  of  two  doves  drinkin^' 


296  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

out  of  the  same  cup,  and  some  sheets  of  blotting-paper, 
which  had  the  impression  on  them  of  the  closing  lines  of 
my  writing  in  these  pages,  traced  during  the  past  night. 
Distorted  by  the  suspicion  which  had  now  become  a  part 
of  myself,  even  such  trifles  as  these  looked  too  dangerous 
to  be  trusted  without  a  guard — even  the  locked  table 
drawer  seemed  to  be  not  sufficiently  protected,  in  my  ab 
sence,  until  the  means  of  access  to  it  had  been  carefully  se- 
cured as  well. 

1  found  no  appearance  of  any  one  having  entered  the 
room  while  I  had  been  talking  with  Laura.  My  writing 
materials  (which  1  had  given  the  servant  instructions  never 
to  meddle  with)  were  scattered  over  the  table  much  as  usual. 
The  only  circumstance  in  connection  with  them  that  at  all 
struck  me  was,  that  the  seal  lay  tidily  in  the  tray  with  the 
pencils  and  the  wax.  It  was  not  in  my  careless  habits  (I 
am  sorry  to  say)  to  put  it  there;  neither  did  I  remember 
putting  it  tiiere.  But,  as  I  could  not  call  to  mind,  on  the 
other  hand,  where  else  1  had  thrown  it  down,  and  as  I  was 
also  doubtful  whether  1  might  not,  for  once,  have  laid  it 
mechanically  in  the  right  place.  1  abstained  from  adding 
to  the  perplexity  with  which  the  day's  events  had  filled  my 
mind  by  troubling  it  afresh  about  a  trifle.  I  locked  the 
door,  put  the  key  in  my  pocket,  and  went  duwn-stairs. 

Mme.  Fosco  was  alone  in  the  hall,  looking  at  the  weather- 
glass. 

"  Still  falling,"  she  said.  "  I  am  afraid  w^  must  ex- 
pect more  rain.'' 

Her  face  was  composed  again  to  its  customary  expression 
and  its  customary  color.  But  the  hand  with  which  slie 
pointed  to  the  dial  of  the  weather-glass  still  trembled. 

Could  she  have  told  her  husband  already  that  she  had 
overheard  Laura  reviling  him,  in  my  companv,  as  a  "  Spy?" 
My  strong  suspicion  that  she  must  have  told  him;  my  irre- 
sistible dread  (all  the  more  overpowering  from  its  very 
vagueness)  of  the  consequences  which  might  follow;  my 
fixed  conviction,  derived  from  various  little  self-betrayals 
which  womfin  notice  in  each  other,  that  Mme.  Fosco,  in 
spite  of  her  well-assumed  external  civility,  had  not  forgiven 
her  niece  for  innocently  standing  between  her  and  the  leg- 
acy of  ten  thousand  pontids — all  rushed  upon  my  mind  to- 
gether, all  im]>elled  me  to  speak,  in  the  vaiu  hope  of  using 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  29? 

my  own  influence  and  my  own  powers  of  persuasion  for  the 
atonement  of  Laura's  offense. 

"  May  1  trust  to  your  kindness  to  excuse  me,  Madame 
Fosco,  if  I  venture  to  speak  to  you  on  an  exceedingly  pain- 
ful subjecf^" 

She  crossed  her  hands  in  front  of  her,  and  bowed  her 
head  solemnly,  without  uttenng  a  word,  and  without  tak- 
ing her  eyes  off  mine  for  a  moment. 

"  When  you  were  so  good  as  to  bring  me  back  my  hand- 
kerchief," I  went  on,  "  I  am  very,  very  much  afraid  you 
must  have  accidentally  heard  Laura  say  something  which 
1  am  unwilling  to  repeat,  and  which  I  will  not  attempt  to 
defend.  I  will  only  venture  to  hope  that  you  have  not 
thought  it  of  sufficient  importance  to  he  mentioned  to  the 
Count?" 

"  I  think  it  of  no  importance  whatever,"  said  Mnie. 
Fosco,  sharply  and  suddenly.  "  But,"  she  added,  resym- 
ing  her  icy  manner  in  a  moment,  "  I  have  no  secrets  from 
my  husband,  even  in  trifles.  When  he  noticed,  just  now, 
that  I  looked  distressed,  it  was  my  painful  duty  to  tell  hira 
why  1  was  distressed;  and  I  frankly  acknowledge  to  you. 
Miss  flalcombe,  that  I  have  told  him." 

I  was  prepared  to  hear  it,  and  yet  she  turned  me  cold 
all  over  when  she  said  those  words. 

"  Let  me  earnestly  entreat  you,  Madame  Fosco — let  me 
earnestly  entreat  the  Count — to  make  some  allowances  for 
the  sad  position  in  which  my  sister  is  placed.  She  spoke 
while  she  was  smarting  under  the  insult  and  injustice  in- 
flicted on  her  by  her  husband,  and  she  was  not  herself  when 
she  said  those  rash  words.  May  1  hope  that  they  will  be 
considerately  and  generously  forgiven?" 

*'  Most  assuredly,"  said  the  Count's  quiet  voice,  behind 
me.  He  had  stolen  on  us  with  his  noiseless  tread,  and  his 
book  in  his  hand,  from  the  library. 

"  When  Lady  Clyde  said  those  hasty  words,"  he  went 
on,  "  she  did  me  an  injustice,  which  I  lament — and  for- 
give. Let  us  never  i-eturn  t(*  the  subject.  Miss  Halcombe; 
let  us  all  comfortably  combine  to  forget  it,  from  this  mo- 
ment." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  I  said;  "you  relieve  me  inex- 
pressibly— " 

1  tried  to  continue,  but  his  eyes  were  on  me;  his  deadly 
smile,  that  hides  everything,  was  set,  hard,  and  un  waver- 


J>y8  THte    WOMAN    TN    WHITfi, 

iug,  on  his  broad,  smooth  face.  My  distrust  of  his  unfath- 
omable  falseness,  my  sense  of  my  own  degradation  in  stoop- 
ing^ to  conciliate  his  wife  and  himself,  so  disturbed  and 
confused  me  that  the  next  words  failed  on  my  lips,  and  1 
stood  there  in  silence. 

"  I  beg  you  on  my  knees  to  say  no  more,  Miss  Hal- 
combe;  I  am  truly  shocked  that  you  should  liave  thought 
ic  necessary  to  say  so  much."  With  that  polite  speech  he 
took  my  hand — oh,  how  I  despise  myself!  oh,  how  little 
comfort  there  is  even  in  knowing  that  I  submitted  to  it  for 
Laura's  sake! — he  took  my  hand,  and  put  it  to  his  poison- 
ous lips.  Never  did  1  know  all  my  horror  of  him  til!  then. 
That  innocent  familiarity  turned  my  blood  as  if  it  had  been 
the  vilest  insult  that  a  man  could  offer  me.  Yet  1  hid  my 
disgust  from  him — 1  tried  to  smile — I,  whoonce  mercilessly 
despised  deceit  in  other  women,  was  as  false  as  the  worst 
of  them,  as  false  as  the  Judas  whose  lips  had  touched 
my  hand. 

I  could  not  have  maintained  my  degrading  self-control 
— it  is  all  that  redeems  me  in  my  own  estimation  to  know 
that  1  could  not — if  he  had  still  continued  to  keep  his  ''yes 
on  my  face.  His  wife's  tigerish  jealousy  came  to  my  res- 
cue, and  forced  his  attention  away  from  me  the  moment 
he  possessed  himself  of  my  hand.  Her  cold  blue  eyes 
caught  light;  her  dull  white  cheeks  flushed  into  bright 
color;  she  looked  years  younger  than  her  age,  in  an  instant. 

"  Count!"  she  said.  "  Your  foreign  forms  of  polite- 
ness are  not  understood  by  English  women." 

"Pardon  me,  my  angel!  The  best  and  dearest  En- 
glish woman  in  the  world  understands  them.  "  With  those 
words  he  dropped  my  hand,  and  quietly  raised  his  wife's 
hand  to  his  lips  in  place  of  it. 

1  ran  back  up  the  stairs,  to  take  refuge  in  my  own  room, 
if  there  had  been  time  to  think,  my  thoughts,  when  ]  was 
alone  again,  would  have  caused  me  bitter  suffering.  But 
there  was  no  time  to  think.  Happily  for  the  preservation 
of  my  calmness  and  my  courage,  there  was  time  for  noth- 
ing but  action. 

The  letters  to  the  lawyer  and  to  Mr.  Fairlie  were  still  to 
be  written,  and  1  sat  down  at  once,  without  a  moment's 
he.=!itation,  to  devote  myself  to  them. 

I'here  was  no  multitude  of  resources  to  perplex  me — there 
was  absolutely  no  one  to  depend  on,  in  the  iirst  instancH 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE.  299 

but  myself.  Sir  Percival  had  neither  friends  nor  rekitives 
in  the  neighborhood  whose  intercession  I  could  attempt  to 
employ.  He  was  on  the  coldest  terms — in  some  cases,  on 
the  worst  terms — witii  the  families  of  his  own  rank  and 
station  who  lived  near  him.  We  two  women  had  neither 
father  nor  brother  to  come  to  the  house  and  take  our  parts. 
There  was  no  choice  but  to  write  those  two  doubtful  let- 
ters, or  to  put  Laura  in  the  wrong  and  myself  in  the  wrong, 
and  to  make  all  peaceable  negotiation  in  the  future  impos- 
sible by  secretly  escaping  from  Blackwater  Park.  Nothing 
but  the  most  imminent  personal  peril  could  justify  our  tak- 
ing that  second  course.  The  letters  must  be  tried  first, 
and  I  wrote  them. 

I  said  nothing  to  the  lawyer  about  Anne  Catherick,  be- 
cause (as  I  had  already  hinted  to  Laura)  that  topic;  was 
connected  with  a  mystery  which  we  could  not  yet  explain^ 
and  which  it  would,  therefore,  be  useless  to  write  about  to 
a  professional  man.  I  left  my  correspondent  to  attribute 
Sir  Percival's  disgraoel'ui  conduct,  if  he  pleased,  to  fresh 
disputes  about  money  matters,  and  simply  consulted  him 
on  the  possibility  of  taking  legal  proceedings  for  Laura's 
protection,  in  the  event  of  her  husband's  refusal  to  allow 
her  to  leave  Blackwater  Park  for  a  time  and  return  with 
me  to  Limmeridge.  I  referred  hins'to  Mr.  Fairlie  for  the 
details  of  this  last  arrangement — I  assured  him  that  I  wrote 
with  Laura's  authority — and  I  ended  by  entreating  him  to 
act  in  her]  name  to  the  utmost  extent  of  his  power,  and 
with  the  least  possible  loss  of  time. 

The  letter  to  Mr.  Fairlie  occupied  me  !iext.  I  appealed 
to  him  on  the  terms  which  I  had  mentioned  to  Laura  as 
the  most  likely  to  make  him  bestir  himself;  I  inclosed  a 
copy  of  my  letter  to  the  law^yer,  to  show  him  how  serious 
the  case  was;  and  1  represented  our  removal  to  Limmeridge 
as  the  only  compromise  which  would  prevent  the  danger 
and  distress  of  Laura's  present  position  from  inevitably 
affecting  her  uncle  as  well  as  herself,  at  no  very  distant 
time. 

When  1  had  done,  and  had  sealed  and  directed  the  two 
envelopes,  I  went  back  with  the  letters  to  Laura's  room, 
to  show  her  that  they  were  written. 

"  Has  anybody  disturbed  you?"  I  asked,  when  she  opened 
the  door  to  me. 


BOO  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  Nobody  has  knocked/'  she  replied.  "But  1  heard 
Bome  one  iu  the  outer  room." 

"  Was  it  a  man  or  a  woman?" 

*'  A  woman.     I  heard  tlie  rustling  of  her  gown.'* 

"  A  rustling  like  silk?" 

"Yes,  like  silk." 

Mme.  Fosco  had  evidently  been  watching  outside.  The 
mischici  she  might  do  by  herself  was  little  to  be  feared. 
But  the  mischief  she  might  do  as  a  willing  instrument  in 
her  husband's  hands  was  too  formidable  to  be  overlooked. 

"  AYhat  became  of  the  rustling  of  the  gown  when  you  no 
longer  heard  it  iu  the  anteroom?"  1  inquired.  "  Did  you 
hear  it  go  past  your  wall,  along  the  passage?" 

"  Yes.     1  kept  still,  and  listened,  and  just  heard  it." 

"Which  way  did  it  go?" 

"  Toward  your  room." 

1  considered  again.  The  sound  had  not  caught  my  ears. 
But  I  was  then  deeply  absorbed  in  my  letters,  aud  1  write 
with  a  heavy  hand  and  a  quill  pen,  scraping  and  scratch- 
ing noisily  over  the  pajier.  It  was  more  likely  that  Mme. 
Fosco  would  hear  the  scrapitig  of  my  pen  than  that  1  should 
hear  the  rustling  of  her  dress.  Anothei*  reason  (if  I  had 
wanted  one)  for  not  trusting  my  letters  to  the  post-bag  iu 
the  hall. 

Laura  saw  me  thinking.  "  More  difficulties!"  she  said, 
wearily;  "  more  dithculties  and  more  dangers!" 

"  No  daTigers,"  I  replied.  "  Some  little  difficulty,  per- 
haps. I  am  thinking  of  the  safest  way  of  putting  my  two 
letters  into  Fanny's  hands." 

"  You  have  really  written  them,  then?  Oh,  Marian, 
run  no  risks — pray,  pray  run  no  risks!" 

"  No,  no — no  fear.  Let  me  see — what  o'clock  is  it 
now?" 

It  was  a  quarter  to  six.  There  would  be  time  for  me  to 
get  to  the  village  inn,  and  to  come  back  again,  before  din- 
ner. If  1  waited  till  the  evening,  I  might  find  no  second 
opportunity  of  safely  leaving  the  house. 

"  Keep  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  Laura,"  I  said,  "  and 
don't  be  afraid  about  me.  If  you  hear  any  inquiries  made, 
call  through  the  door,  aud  say  that  I  am  gone  out  for  a 
walk." 

"  When  shall  you  be  back?" 

*'  Before  dinner,  without  fail.     Courage,  my  love.     By 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  30^ 

this  time  to-morrow  you  will  have  a  clear-headed,  trust- 
worthy man  UL'Ling  for  your  good.  Mr.  Gilmore's  partner 
is  our  next  best  friend  to  Mr.  Gilmore  himself." 

A  moment's  reliection,  as  soon  as  1  was  alone,  convinced 
me  that  I  had  better  not  appear  in  my  walking-dress  until 
I  had  first  discovered  what  was  going  on  in  the  lower  part 
of  the  house.  I  had  not  ascertained  yet  whether  Sir  Per- 
cival  was  in-doors  or  out. 

The  singing  of  the  canaries  in  the  library,  and  the  smell 
of  tobac  cosmoke  that  came  through  the  door,  which  was 
not  closed,  told  me  at  once  where  the  Count  was.  1  looked 
over  my  shoulder  as  I  passed  the  door-way,  and  saw,  to 
my  surprise,  that  he  was  exhibiting  the  docility  of  the  birds, 
in  his  most  engagingly  polite  manner,  to  the  housekeeper. 
He  must  have  specially  invited  her  to  see  them,  for  she 
would  never  have  thought  of  going  into  the  library  of  her 
own  accord.  The  man's  slightest  actions  had  a  purpose  of 
some  kind  at  the  bottom  of  ^ery  one  of  them.  What 
could  be  his  purpose  here? 

It  was  no  time  then  to  inquire  into  his  motives.  I  looked 
about  for  Mme.  Fosco  next,  and  found  her  following  her 
favorite  circle,  round  and  round  the  fish-pond. 

I  was  a  little  doubtful  how  she  would  meet  me,  after  the 
outbreak  of  jealousy  of  which  1  had  been  the  cause  so  short 
a  time  since.  But  her  husband  had  tamed  her  in  the  in- 
terval, and  she  now  s})oke  to  me  with  the  same  civility  as 
usual.  My  only  object  in  addressing  myself  to  her  was  to 
ascertain  if  she  knew  what  had  become  of  Sir  Percival.  I 
contrived  to  refer  to  him  indirectly,  and,  after  a  little  fenc- 
ing on  either  side,  she  at  last  mentioned  that  he  had  gone 
out. 

"  Which  of  the  horses  has  he  taken?"  I  asked,  carelessly. 

"  Kone  of  them,"  she  replied.  "  He  went  away,  two 
hours  since,  on  foot.  As  1  understood  it,  his  object  was  to 
make  fresh  inquiries  about  the  woman  named  Anne  Calh- 
erick.  He  appears  to  be  unreasonably  anxious  about  trac- 
ing her.  Do  you  happen  to  know  if  she  is  dangerously 
mad.  Miss  Halcombe?" 

"  1  do  not.  Countess." 

"  Are  you  going  in?'' 

"  Yes,  1  think  so.  I  suppose  it  will  soon  be  time  to 
dress  for  dinner.'' 

We  entered  the  house  together.     Mme.  Fosco  strolled 


302  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITTI. 

into  the  library,  and  closed  the  door.  I  went  at  once  to 
fetch  my  hat  and  shawl.  Every  moment  was  of  impor* 
tance,  if  1  was  to  get  to  Fanny  at  the  inn  and  be  back  be- 
fore dinner. 

When  I  crossed  the  hall  again,  no  one  was  there,  and 
the  singing  of  the  birds  in  the  library  had  ceased.  I  could 
not  stop  to  make  any  fresh  investigations.  I  could  only 
assure  myself  that  the  way  was  clear,  and  then  leave  the 
house,  with  the  two  letters  safe  in  my  pocket. 

On  my  way  to  the  village,  1  prepared  myself  for  the  pos- 
Eibility  of  meeting  Sir  Percival.  As  long  as  I  had  him  to 
deal  with  alone,  I  felt  certain  of  not  losing  my  presence  of 
mind.  Any  woman  who  is  sure  of  her  own  wits  is  a  match, 
at  any  time,  for  a  man  who  is  not  sure  of  his  own  temper. 
I  had  no  such  fear  of  Sir  Percival  as  I  had  of  the  Count. 
Instead  of  fluttering,  it  had  composed  me,  to  hear  of  the 
errand  on  which  he  had  gone  out.  While  the  tracing  of 
Anne  Catherick  was  the  great  anxiety  that  occupied  him, 
Laura  and  I  might  hope  for  some  cessation  of  any  active 
persecution  at  his  hands.  For  our  sakes  now,  as  well  as 
for  Anne's,  I  hoped  and  prayed  fervently  that  she  might 
still  escape  him. 

I  walked  on  as  briskly  as  the  heat  would  let  me  till  1 
reached  the  cross-road  which  led  to  the  village,  looking 
back,  from  time  to  time,  to  make  sure  that  i  was  not  fol- 
lowed by  any  one. 

Nothing  was  behind  me,  all  the  way,  but  an  empty 
country  wagon.  The  noise  made  by  the  lumbering  wheels 
annoyed  me,  and  when  I  found  that  the  wagon  took  the 
road  to  the  village,  as  well  as  myself,  I  stopped  to  let  it  go 
by  and  pass  out  of  hearing.  As  I  looked  toward  it,  more 
attentively  than  before,  I  thought  I  detected,  at  intervals, 
the  feet  of  a  man  walking  close  behind  it,  the  carter  being 
in  front,  by  the  side  of  his  horses.  The  part  of  the  cross- 
road which  1  had  just  passed  over  was  so  narrow  that  the 
wagon  coming  after  me  brushed  the  trees  and  thickets  on 
either  side,  and  1  had  to  wait  until  it  went  by  before  1 
could  test  the  correctness  of  my  impression.  Apparently 
that  impression  was  wrong,  for  when  the  wagon  had  passed 
me  the  road  behind  it  was  quite  clear. 

1  reached  the  inn  without  meeting  Sir  Percival,  and 
without  noticing  anything  more,  and  was  glad  to  find  that 
the  landlady  had  received  Fanny  with  all  possible  kind- 


THI<]    WOMAN"    IN     WHITE.  303 

ness.  The  girl  had  a  little  parlor  to  sit  in,  away  from  the 
noise  of  tlie  tap-room,  and  a  clean  bed-chamber  at  the  top 
of  the  house.  She  began  crying  again,  at  the  sight  of  me, 
and  said,  poor  soul,  truly  enougii,  that  it  was  dreadful  to 
feel  herself  turned  out  into  the  world,  as  if  she  had  com- 
mitted some  unpardonable  fault,  when  no  blame  could  be 
laid  at  her  door  by  anybody — not  even  by  her  master  who 
had  sent  her  away. 

"  Try  to  maice  the  best  of  it,  Fanny,"  1  said.  "  Your 
mistress  and  I  will  stand  your  friends,  and  will  take  care 
that  your  character  shall  not  suffer.  Now,  listen  to  me. 
1  have  very  little  time  to  spare,  and  1  am  going  to  put  a 
great  trust  in  your  hands.  J  wish  you  to  take  care  of  these 
two  letters.  The  one  with  the  stamp  on  it  you  are  to  put 
into  the  post  when  you  reach  London,  to-morrow.  The 
other,  directed  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  you  are  to  deliver  to  him 
yourself,  as  soon  as  you  gee  home.  Keep  both  the  letters 
about  you,  and  give  them  up  to  no  one.  They  are  of  the 
last  importance  to  your  mistress's  interests.'' 

Fanny  put  the  letters  into  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 
"  There  they  shall  stop,  miss,"  she  said,  "  till  1  have  done 
what  you  tell  me." 

"  Mind  you  are  at  the  station  in  good  time  to-morrow 
morning,"  I  continued.  "  And  when  you  see  the  house- 
keeper at  Limmeridge,  give  her  my  compliments,  and  say 
that  you  are  in  my  service  until  Lady  Glyde  is  able  to  take 
you  back.  We  may  meet  again  sooner  than  you  think. 
So  keep  a  good  heart,  and  don't  miss  the  seven-o'clock 
train." 

"  Thank  you,  miss:  thank  you  kindly.  It  gives  one 
courage  to  hear  your  voice  again.  Please  to  offer  my  duty 
to  my  lady,  and  say  I  left  all  the  things  as  tidy  as  1  could 
in  the  time.  Oh,  dear!  dear!  who  will  dress  her  for  din- 
ner to-day?  It  really  breaks  my  heart,  miss,  to  think  of 
it." 

When  I  got  back  to  the  house,  1  had  only  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  to  spare  to  put  myself  in  order  for  dinner,  and  to 
say  two  words  to  Laura  before  1  went  down-stairs. 

*'  The  letters  are  in  Fanny's  hands,"  I  whispered  to  her, 
at  the  door.     "  Do  you  mean  to  join  us  at  dinner?'* 

*'  Oh.  no,  no — not  for  the  world!'* 


B04  THE    WOMAN     IN     WHITK 

"  Eas  anything  happened?  Has  any  one  disturbed 
you?" 

"  Yes — just  now — Sir  Percival — ** 

"  Did  he  come  in?" 

*'  No;  he  frightened  me  by  a  thump  on  the  door,  out- 
side. I  said;  '  UHio's  there?"  '  You  know/  he  answered. 
*  Will  you  alter  your  mind,  and  tell  me  the  rest?  You 
shall!  Sooner  or  later  I'll  wring  it  out  of  you.  You  know 
where  Aane  Calherick  is  at  this  moment!'  '  Indeed,  in' 
deed,'  I  said,  '  1  don't.'  '  You  do!'  he  called  back.  '  I'll 
crush  your  obstinacy — mind  that! — I'll  wring  it  out  of 
you!'  rie  went  away,  with  those  words — went  away, 
Marian,  hardly  five  minutes  ago." 

He  had  not  found  Anne!  We  were  safe  for  that  night — 
he  had  not  found  her  yet. 

"  You  are  going  down-stairs,  Marian?  Come  up  again 
in  the  evening." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Don^t  be  uneasy  if  I  am  a  little  late— 1 
must  be  careful  not  to  give  offense  by  leaving  them  too 
soon." 

The  dinner-bell  rang,  and  I  hastened  away. 

Sir  Percival  took  Mme.  Fosco  into  the  dining-room,  and 
the  Count  gave  me  his  arm.  He  was  hot  and  flushed,  and 
was  not  dressed  with  his  customary  care  and  completeness. 
Had  he,  too,  been  out  before  dinner,  and  been  late  in  get- 
ting back?  or  was  he  only  suffering  from  the  heat  a  little 
more  severely  than  usual? 

However  this  might  be,  he  was  unquestionably  troubled 
by  some  secret  annoyance  or  anxiety,  which,  with  all  his 
powers  of  deception,  he  was  not  able  entirely  to  conceal. 
Through  the  whole  of  dinner  he  was  almost  as  silent  as  Sir 
Percival  himself,  and  he,  every  now  and  then,  looked  at 
his  wife  .vith  an  expression  of  furtive  uneasiness  which  was 
quite  new  in  my  experience  of  him.  The  one  social  obliga- 
tion which  he  seemed  to  be  self-possessed  enough  to  per- 
form as  carefully  as  ever  was  the  obligation  of  being  per- 
sistently civil  and  attentive  to  me.  What  vile  object  he 
has  in  view  I  can  not  still  discover;  but,  be  the  design 
what  it  may,  invariable  politeness  toward  myself,  invaria- 
ble humility  toward  Laura,  and  invariable  suppression  (at 
any  cost)  of  Sir  Percivars  clumsy  violence,  have  been  the 
uieans  he  has  resolutely  and  impenetrably  used  to  get  to 
Mb  end,  ever  since  he  set  foot  in  this  house.     I  suspected 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITK.  305 

ft  when  he  first  interfered  in  our  favor,  on  the  day  when 
the  deed  was  produced  in  the  library,  and  1  feel  certain  of 
it  now. 

When  Mnie.  Fosco  and  1  rose  to  leave  the  table,  the 
Count  rose  also  to  accompany  us  back  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  What  are  you  going  away  for?"  asked  Sir  Percival— 
'  1  mean  yoii  Fosco." 

"  I  am  going  away  because  I  have  had  dinner  enough, 
and  wine  enough,"  answered  the  Count.  "Be  so  kind, 
Percival.  as  to  make  allowances  for  my  foreign  habit  of  go- 
ing out  with  the  ladies,  as  well  as  coming  in  with  them." 

"  Nonsense!  Another  glass  of  claret  won't  hurt  you. 
Sit  down  again  like  an  Englishman.  I  want  half  an  hour's 
quiet  talk  with  you  over  our  wine." 

"A  quiet  talk,  Percival,  with  all  my  heart,  but  not 
now,  and  not  over  the  wine.  Later  in  the  evenmg,  if  you 
please — later  in  the  evening." 

"  Civil  I"  said  Sir  Percival,  savagely.  "  Civil  behavior, 
upon  my  soul,  to  a  man  in  his  own  house!" 

I  had  more  than  once  seen  him  look  at  the  Count  un- 
easily during  dinner-time,  and  had  observed  that  the  Count 
carefully  abstained  from  lool<ing  at  him  in  return.  This 
circumstance,  coupled  with  the  host's  anxiety  for  a  little 
quiet  talk  over  the  wine  and  the  guest's  obstinate  resolu- 
tion not  to  sit  down  again  at  the  table,  revived  in  my  mem- 
ory the  request  which  Sir  Percival  had  vainly  addressed  to 
his  friend,  earlier  in  the  day,  to  come  out  of  the  library  and 
speak  to  him.  The  Count  had  deferred  granting  that 
private  interview  when  it  was  first  asked  for  in  the  after- 
noon, and  had  again  deferred  granting  it  when  it  was  a 
second  time  asked  for  at  the  dinner-table.  Whatever  the 
coming  subject  of  discussion  between  them  might  be,  it 
was  clearly  an  important  subject  in  Sir  Perclval's  estima- 
tion— and  perhaps  (judging  from  his  evident  reluctance  to 
approach  it)  a  dangerous  subject  as  well,  in  the  estimation 
of  the  Count. 

These  considerations  occurred  to  me  while  we  were  pass- 
ing from  the  dining-room  to  the  drawing-room.  Sir  l^er- 
cival's  angry  commentary  on  his  friend's  desertion  of  hiai 
had  not  produced  the  slightest  effect.  The  Count  obsti- 
nately accompanied  us  to  the  tea-table — waited  a  minute 
9r  two  in  the  room — went  out  into  the  hall — and  returned 


306  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

with  the  post-bag  in  his  hands.  It  was  then  eight  o'clock 
— the  hour  at  which  the  letters  were  always  dispatched 
from  Blackwater  Park. 

"  Have  you  any  letter  for  the  post.  Miss  Halcombe?"  ho 
asked,  approaching  me  with  the  bag. 

1  saw  Mme.  Fosco,  who  was  making  the  tea,  pause,  with 
the  sugar-tongs  in  her  hand,  to  listen  for  my  answer. 

*'  No,  Count,  thank  you.     No  letters  to-day.'' 

He  gave  the  bag  to  the  servant,  who  was  then  in  the 
room,  sat  down  at  the  piano,  and  played  the  air  of  the 
lively  Neapolitan  street-song,  "  La  mia  Carolina,"  twice 
over.  His  wife,  who  was  usually  the  most  delibei-ate  of 
women  in  all  her  movements,  made  the  tea  as  quickly  as  1 
could  have  made  it  myself,  tiuished  her  own  cup  in  two 
minutes,  and  quietly  glided  out  of  the  room. 

1  rose  to  follow  her  example,  partly  because  1  suspected 
her  of  attempting  some  treachery  upstairs  with  Laura, 
partly  because  1  was  resolved  not  to  remain  alone  m  the 
same  room  with  her  husband. 

Before  I  could  get  to  the  door  the  Count  stopped  me,  by 
a  request  for  a  cup  of  tea.  I  gave  him  the  cup  of  tea,  and 
tried  a  second  time  to  get  away.  He  stopfjed  me  again — 
this  time  by  going  back  to  the  piano  and  suddenly  appeal- 
ing to  me  on  a  musical  question  in  which  he  declared  that 
the  honor  of  his  country  was  concerned. 

I  vainly  pleaded  my  own  total  ignorance  of  music,  and 
total  want  of  taste  in  that  direction.  He  only  appealed  to 
me  again  with  a  vehemence  which  set  all  further  protest 
on  my  part  at  defiance.  "  The  English  and  the  Germans 
(he  indignantly  declared)  were  always  reviling  the  Italians 
for  their  inability  to  cultivate  the  higher  kinds  of  music. 
We  were  perpetually  talking  of  our  Oratorios;  and  they 
were  perpetually  talking  of  their  Symphonies.  Did  we 
forget  and  did  they  forget  his  immortal  friend  and  coun- 
tryman, Rossini?  What  was  '  Moses  in  Egypt  '  but  a  sub- 
lime oratorio,  which  was  acted  on  the  stage,  instead  of  be- 
ing coldly  sung  in  a  concert-room?  What  was  the  overture 
to  '  Guillaume  Tell  '  but  a  symphony  under  another  name? 
Had  1  heard  '  Moses  in  Egypt?'  Would  I  listen  to  this, 
and  this,  and  tliis,  and  say  if  anything  more  sublimely 
pacred  and  grand  had  ever  been  composed  by  mortal 
man?"  And,  without  waiting  for  a  word  of  assent  or  dis- 
iijent  on  m.y  part,  looking  me  hard  ifi  the  facQ  all  the  time, 


THE    WOMAN^  IN    WHITE.  307 

he  began  thundering  on  the  p'ano,  and  singing  to  it  wilb 
loud  and  lofty  enthusiasm,  only  inteiruf)ting  himself,  at 
intervals,  to  announce  to  me  fiercely  the  titles  oi'  the  diflfer- 
ent  pieces  of  music:  "  '  Chorus  of  Egyptians,  in  the  Plague, 
of  Darkness,^  Miss  Halcombe!" — "  '  Eecitativo  of  Moses, 
with  the  Tables  of  the  Law.'" — "'Prayer  of  Israelites, 
at  the  passage  of  the  Ked  Sea.'  Alia!  Aha!  Is  that 
saored.^  Is  that  sublime.^"  The  piano  trembled  under  his 
powerful  hands;  and  the  tea-cups  on  the  table  rattled,  as 
his  big  bass  voice  thundered  out  the  notes,  and  his  heavy 
foot  beat  time  on  the  floor. 

There  was  something  horrible,  something  fierce  and 
devilish,  in  the  outburst  of  his  delight  at  his  own  singing 
and  playing,  and  in  the  triumph  with  which  he  watched  its 
effect  upon  me,  as  1  shrunk  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  door. 
I  was  released  at  last,  not  by  my  own  efl'orts  but  by  Sir 
Percival's  interposition.  He  opened  the  dining-room  door, 
and  called  out  angrily  to  know  what  "  that  infernal  noise  " 
meant.  The  Count  instantly  got  up  from  the  piano. 
"  Ah!  if  Percival  is  coming,"  he  said,  "  harmony  and 
melody  are  both  at  an  end.  The  Muse  of  Music,  Misa 
Halcombe,  deserts  us  in  dismay;  and  I,  the  fat  old  min- 
strel, exhale  the  rest  of  my  enthusiasm  in  the  open  air!" 
He  stalked  out  into  the  veranda,  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  resumed  the  "  recitativo  of  Moses,"  sotto 
voce,  in  the  garden. 

I  heard  Sir  Percival  call  after  him  from  the  dining-room 
window.  But  he  took  no  notice;  he  seemed  determined 
not  to  hear.  That  long-deferred  quiet  talk  between  them 
was  still  to  be  put  oft',  was  still  to  wait  for  the  Count's  ab- 
solute will  and  pleasure. 

He  had  detained  me  in  the  drawing-room  nearly  half  an 
hour  from  the  time  when  his  wife  left  us.  Where  had  she 
been,  and  what  had  she  been  doing  in  that  interval? 

I  went  upstairs  to  ascertain,  but  I  made  no  discoveries; 
and  when  I  questioned  Laura,  I  found  that  she  had  not 
heard  anything.  Nobody  had  disturbed  her  —  no  faint 
rustling  of  the  silk  dress  had  been  audible,  either  in  the 
anteroom  or  in  the  passage. 

It  was  then  twenty  minutes  to  nine.  After  going  to  ray 
room  to  get  my  journal,  I  returned,  and  sat  with  Laura, 
sometimes  writing,  sometimes  stopping  to  talk  with  ner. 
Nobody  came  near  us,  and  nothing  happened.     Wa  ro- 


308  THE    WOMAN    TN    WHITE. 

mained  together  till  ten  o'clock.  I  then  rose,  said  my  last 
cheeriug  words,  and  wished  her  good-night.  She  locked 
her  door  again,  after  we  had  arranged  that  I  should  come 
in  and  see  her  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 

I  had  a  few  sentences  more  to  add  to  my  diary  bcfoie 
going  to  bed  myself,  and  as  I  went  down  again  to  the  draw- 
ing-room after  leaving  Laura,  for  the  last  time  that  weary 
day,  I  resolved  merely  to  show  myself  there,  to  make  my 
excuses,  and  then  to  retire  an  hour  earlier  than  usual,  for 
the  night. 

Sir  Percival,  and  the  Count  and  his  wife,  were  sitting 
together.  Sir  Percival  was  yawning  in  an  easy-chair;  the 
Count  was  reading;  Mme.  Fosto  was  fanning  herself. 
Strange  to  say,  her  face  was  flutlied  now.  She,  who  never 
suffered  from  the  heat,  was  most  undoubtedly  suffering 
from  it  to-night. 

"  I  am  afraid.  Countess,  you  are  not  quite  so  well  as 
usual?"  I  said. 

"  The  very  remark  I  was  about  to  make  to  you,"  she 
replied.     "  You  are  looking  pale,  my  dear." 

My  dear!  It  was  the  fiir-t  time  she  had  ever  addressed 
me  with  that  familiarity!  There  was  an  insolent  smile, 
too,  on  her  face,  when  she  said  the  words. 

"  I  am  suffering  from  one  of  my  bad  headaches,"  1  an- 
swered, coldly. 

"  Ah,  indeed?  Want  of  exercise,  I  su2:)pose?  A  walk 
before  dinner  would  have  been  just  the  thing  for  you." 
She  referred  to  the  "  walk  "  with  a  strange  emphasis. 
Had  she  seen  me  go  out?  No  matter  if  she  had.  The 
letters  were  safe  now,  in  Fanny's  hands, 

"  Come,  and  have  a  smoke,  Fosco,"  said  Sir  Percival, 
rising,  with  another  uneasy  look  at  his  friend. 

"  With  pleasure,  Percival,  when  the  ladies  have  gone  to 
bed,"  replied  the  Count. 

"  Excuse  me,  Countess,  if  I  set  you  the  example  of  re- 
tiring," I  said.  "  The  only  remedy  for  such  a  headache 
as  mine  is  going  to  bed." 

I  took  my  leave.  There  was  the  same  insolent  smile  on 
the  woman's  face  when  I  shook  hands  with  her.  Sir  Per- 
cival paid  no  attention  to  me.  He  was  looking  impatiently 
at  Mme.  Fosco,  who  showed  no  signs  of  leaving  the  loom 
with  me.     The  Count  smiled  to  himself  behind  \xU  book. 


THE    WOMAN"    IN"    AVIITTF.  809 

There  was  yet  another  delay  to  that  quiet  talk  with  Sir 
Percival — aud  the  Countess  was  the  imi^edimeut  this  time. 


IX. 


June  19th. — Once  safely  shut  into  my  own  room,  I 
opened  these  pages,  and  prepared  to  go  on  with  that  part 
of  the  day's  record  which  was  still  left  to  write. 

For  ten  minutes  or  more  I  sat  idle,  with  the  pen  in  my 
hand,  thinking  over  the  events  of  the  last  twelve  hours. 
When  I  at  last  addressed  myself  to  my  task,  1  found  a  diffi- 
culty in  proceeding  v/Ith  it  which  I  had  never  experienced 
before.  In  spite  of  my  efforts  to  fix  my  thoughts  on  the 
matter  in  hand,  they  wandered  away,  with  the  stiangest 
persistency,  in  the  one  direction  of  Sir  Percival  and  the 
Count;  and  all  the  interest  which  I  trit-d  to  concentrate  on 
my  Journal  centered,  instead,  in  that  private  interview  be- 
tween them,  which  had  been  put  off  all  through  the  day, 
and  which  was  now  to  take  place  in  the  silence  and  solitude 
of  the  night. 

In  this  perverse  state  of  my  mind,  the  recollection  of 
what  had  passed  since  the  morning  would  not  come  back 
to  me;  and  there  was  no  resource  but  to  close  my  jourual 
and  to  get  away  from  it  for  a  little  while. 

1  opened  the  door  which  led  from  my  bedroom  into  my 
sitting-room,  and  having  passed  through,  pulled  it  ^o  again, 
to  prevent  any  accident,  m  case  of  draught,  with  the  can- 
dle left  on  the  dressing-table.  My  sitting-room  window 
was  wide  open,  and  1  leaned  out,  listlessly,  to  look  at  the 
night. 

It  was  dark  and  quiet.  Neither  moon  nor  stars  were 
visible.  There  was  a  smell  like  rain  in  the  still,  heavy  air^ 
and  I  put  my  hand  out  of  the  window.  No.  The  rain  was 
only  threatening;  it  had  Tiot  come  yet. 

1  remained  leaning  on  the  window-sill  for  nearly  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour,  looking  out  absently  into  the  black  dark- 
ness, and  hearing  nothing,  except,  now  and  then,  the  voices 
of  the  servants,  or  the  distant  sound  of  a  closing  door,  in 
the  lower  part  of  the  house. 

Just  as  I  was  turning  away  wearily  from  the  window,  to 
go  back  to  the  bedroom,  and  nmke  a  second  attempt  to 
complete  the  unfinished  entry  in  my  journal,  I  smelled  the 


310  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

oijor  of  tobacco  smoke  stealing  toward  me  on  the  heavy 
night  air.  The  next  moment  I  saw  a  tiny  red  spark  ad- 
vancing from  the  further  end  of  the  house,  in  the  pitch 
darkness.  1  heard  no  footsteps,  and  I  could  see  nothing 
but  the  spark.  It  traveled  along  in  the  night,  passed  the 
window  at  which  I  was  standing,  and  stopped  opposite  my 
bedroom  window,  inside  which  1  had  left  the  light  burning 
on  the  dressing-table. 

The  spark  remained  stationary  for  a  moment,  then  moved 
back  again  in  the  direction  from  which  it  had  advanced. 
As  I  followed  its  progress,  I  saw  a  second  red  spark,  larger 
than  the  first,  approaching  from  the  distance.  The  two 
met  together  in  the  darkness.  Remembering  who  smoked 
cigarettes,  and  who  smoked  cigars,  I  inferred  immediately 
that  the  Count  had  come  out  iirst,  to  look  and  listen,  un- 
der my  window,  and  that  Sir  Percival  had  afterward  joined 
him.  They  must  both  have  been  walking  on  the  lawn,  or 
1  should  certainly  have  heard  Sir  Percival's  heavy  footfall, 
though  the  Count's  soft  step  might  have  escaped  me,  even 
on  the  gravel- walk. 

I  waited  quietly  at  the  window,  certain  that  they  could 
neither  of  them  see  me,  in  the  darkness  of  the  room. 

"  What's  the  matter?"  I  heard  Sir  Percival  say,  in  a 
low  voice.     "  Why  don't  you  come  in  and  sit  down?" 

"  I  want  to  see  the  light  out  of  that  window,"  replied 
tlie  Count,  softly. 

"  What  harm  does  the  light  do?" 

"  It  shows  she  is  not  in  bed  yet.  She  is  sharp  enougn 
to  suspect  something,  and  bold  enough  to  come  down-stairs 
and  listen,  if  she  can  get  the  chance.  Patience,  Percival 
—patience." 

"  Humbug!    You're  always  talking  of  patience." 

"  1  shall  talk  of  something  else  presently.  My  gooa 
friend,  you  are  on  the  edge  of  your  domestic  precipice;  and 
'f  I  let  you  give  the  women  one  other  chance,  on  my  sacred 
word  of  honor  they  will  push  you  over  it!" 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"  We  will  come  to  oui-  explanations,  Percival,  when  th« 
light  is  out  of  that  window,  and  when  1  have  had  one  little 
look  at  the  rooms  on  each  side  of  the  library,  and  a  peep  at 
the  staircase  as  well." 

They  slowly  moved  away,  and  the  rest  of  the  conversa- 
tion between  them  (which  had  been  conducted  throughout 


THB    WOMAK'    IN    WHITE.  313 

fn  the  same  low  tones)  ceased  to  be  audible.  It  was  no 
matter.  1  had  heard  enough  to  determine  me  on  justify^ 
ing  the  Count's  opinion  of  my  sharpness  and  my  courage. 
Before  the  red  sparks  were  out  of  sight  in  the  darkness,  I 
had  made  up  my  mitid  that  there  should  be  a  listener  wheu 
those  two  men  sat  down  to  their  talk,  and  that  the  listener, 
in  spite  of  all  the  Count's  precautions  to  the  contrary, 
should  be  myself.  1  wanted  but  one  motive  to  sanction 
the  act  to  my  own  conscience,  and  to  give  me  courage 
enough  for  performing  it,  and  that  motive  I  had.  Laura's 
honor,  Laura's  happiness — Laura's  life  itself — might  de- 
pend on  my  quick  ears  aiid  my  faithful  memory  to-night. 
1  had  heard  the  Count  s^y  that  he  meant  to  examine  the 
rooms  on  each  side  of  the  library,  and  the  staircase  as  well, 
before  he  entered  on  any  explanations  with  Sir  Percival. 
This  expression  of  his  intentions  was  necessarily  sufficient 
to  inform  me  that  the  library  was  the  room  in  which  he 
proposed  that  the  conversation  should  take  place.  The  one 
moment  of  time  which  was  long  enough  to  bring  me  to 
that  conclusion  was  aliso  the  moment  which  showed  me  a 
means  of  baffling  his  precautions — or,  in  other  words,  of 
heanng  what  he  and  Sir  Percival  said  to  each  other  with- 
out the  risk  of  descending  at  all  into  the  lower  regions  of 
the  house. 

In  speaking  of  the  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  I  have 
mentioned,  incidentally,  the  veranda  outside  them,  on 
which  they  all  opened  by  means  of  French  windows,  ex- 
tending from  the  cornice  to  the  floor.  The  top  of  this 
veranda  was  flat,  the  rain-water  being  carried  off  from  it 
by  pipes  into  tanks  which  helped  to  supply  the  house.  On 
the  narrow  leaden  roof,  which  ran  along  past  the  bedrooms, 
and  which  was  rather  less,  I  should  think,  than  three  feet 
below  the  sills  of  the  windows,  a  row  of  flower-pots  was 
ranged,  with  wide  intervals  between  each  pot,  the  whole 
being  protected  from  falling,  in  high  winds,  by  an  orua- 
mental  iron  railing  along  the  edge  of  the  roof. 

The  plan  which  had  now  occurred  to  me  was  to  get  out, 
at  my  sitting-room  window,  on  to  this  roof;  to  creep  along 
noiselessly  till  I  reached  that  part  of  it  which  was  immedi- 
ately over  the  library  window;  and  to  crouch  down  between 
the  llower-pots,  with  my  ear  against  the  outer  railing.  If 
Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  sat  and  smoked  to-night,  as  1 
liad  seen  them  sitting  and  smoking  many  nights  before. 


Sl^  THE    WOMAN     IN    WHITE. 

with  their  chairs  close  at  the  open  window,  and  their  feet 
stretched  on  the  zinc  garden-seats  which  were  placed  under 
the  veranda,  every  word  they  said  to  each  otlier  above  a 
whisper  (and  no  long  conversation,  as  we  all  know  by  ex- 
perience, can  be  carried  on  in  a  whisper)  must  inevitably 
reach  my  ears.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  they  chose,  to- 
night, to  sit  far  back  inside  the  room,  then  the  chauces 
were  that  1  should  hear  little  or  nothing;  and,  in  that  case, 
1  must  run  the  far  more  serious  risk  of  trying  to  outwit 
them  down-stairs. 

Strongly  as  I  was  fortified  in  my  resolution  by  the  des- 

ferate  nature  of  our  situation,  I  hoped  most  fervently  that 
might  escape  this  last  emergency.  My  courage  was  only 
a  woman's  courage,  after  all;  and  it  was  very  near  to  fail- 
ing me  when  I  thought  of  trusting  myself  on  the  ground 
floor  at  the  dead  of  night,  within  reach  of  Sir  Percival  and 
the  Count. 

1  went  softly  back  to  my  bedroom,  to  try  the  safer  ex- 
periment of  the  veranda  roof  first. 

A  complete  change  m  my  dress  was  imperatively  neces- 
sary, for  many  reasons.  1  took  off  my  silk  gown  to  begin 
with,  because  the  slightest  noise  from  it,  on  that  still  night, 
might  have  betrayed  me.  I  next  removed  the  white  and 
cumbersome  parts  of  my  underclothing,  and  replaced  them 
by  a  petticoat  of  dark  tiannel.  Over  this  I  put  my  black 
travehng-cloak,  and  pulled  the  hood  on  to  my  head.  In 
my  ordinary  evening  costume,  I  took  up  the  room  of  three 
men  at  least.  In  my  present  dress,  when  it  was  held  close 
about  me,  no  man  could  have  passed  through  the  narrowest 
spaces  more  easily  than  I.  The  little  breadth  left  on  the 
roof  of  the  veranda,  between  the  flower-pots  on  one  side 
and  the  wall  and  the  windows  of  the  house  on  the  other, 
made  this  a  serious  consideration.  If  I  knocked  anything 
down,  if  I  made  the  least  noise,  who  could  say  what  the 
consequences  might  be? 

1  only  waited  to  put  the  matches  near  the  candle  before 
I  extinguished  it,  and  groped  my  way  back  into  the  sitting- 
room.  1  locked  that  door,  as  1  had  locked  the  bedroom 
door,  then  quietly  got  out  of  the  window  and  cautiously  set 
my  feet  on  the  leaden  roof  of  the  veranda. 

My  two  rooms  were  at  the  inner  extremity  of  the  new 
wing  of  the  house  in  which  we  all  lived,  and  I  had  five  win- 
dows to  pass  before  I  could  reach  the  position  it  was  neces- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  313 

sary  to  take  up  immediately,  ov^er  the  library.  The  first 
window  belonged  to  a  spare  room,  which  was  empty.  The 
second  and  third  windows  belonged  to  Laura's  room.  The 
fourth  window  belonged  to  Sir  PercivaPs  room.  The  fifth 
belonged  to  the  Countess's  room.  The  others,  by  which 
it  was  not  necessary  for  me  to  pass,  were  the  windows  of 
tlie  Count's  dressing-room,  of  the  bath-room,  and  of  the 
second  empty  spare  room 

!No  sound  reached  my  ears — the  black,  blinding  darkness 
of  the  night  was  all  round  me  when  I  first  stood  on  the 
veranda,  except  at  that  part  of  it  which  Mme.  Fosco's 
window  overlooked.  There,  at  the  very  place  above  the 
library  to  which  my  course  was  directed — there,  I  saw  a 
gleam  of  light!     The  Countess  was  not  yet  in  bed. 

It  was  too  late  to  draw  back;  it  was  no  time  to  wait.  1 
determined  to  go  on  at  all  hazards,  and  trust  for  security 
to  my  own  caution  and  to  the  darkness  of  the  night.  "  For 
Laura's  sake!"  I  thought  to  myself,  as  1  took  the  first  step 
forward  on  the  roof,  with  one  hand  holding  my  cloak  close 
round  me,  and  the  other  groping  against  the  wall  of  the 
nouse.  It  was  better  to  brush  close  by  the  wall  than  to 
risk  striking  my  feet  against  the  flower-pots  within  a  few 
inches  of  me,  on  the  other  side. 

I  passed  the  dark  window  of  the  spare  room,  trying  the 
leaden  roof  at  each  step  with  my  foot,  before  I  risked 
resting  my  weight  on  it.  1  passed  the  dark  windows  of 
Laura's  room  ("  God  bless  her  and  keep  her  to-night!"). 
1  passed  the  dark  window  of  Sir  Percival's  room.  Then  I 
waited  a  moment,  knelt  down,  with  my  hands  to  support 
me,  and  so  crept  to  my  position,  under  the  protection  of 
the  low  wall  between  the  bottom  of  the  lighted  window  and 
the  veranda  roof. 

When  I  ventured  to  look  up  at  the  window  itself,  1  found 
that  the  top  of  it  only  was  open,  and  that  the  blind  inside 
was  drawn  down.  While  I  was  looking,  I  saw  the  shadow 
of  Mme.  Fosco  pass  across  the  white  field  of  the  blind— then 
pass  slowly  back  again.  Thus  far  she  could  not  have  heard 
me,  or  the  shadow  would  surely  have  stopped  at  the  blind, 
even  if  she  had  wanted  courage  enough  to  open  the  window 
and  look  out. 

1  placed  myself  sideways  against  the  railing  of  the  veran- 
da, first  ascertaining,  by  touching  them,  the  position  of  I  he 
flower-pots  on  either  side  of  me.     There  was  room  enough 


1.U  THE    WOMAN     IN    WHITE. 

•.or  mo  to  sit  between  them,  and  no  more.  The  sweet- 
scented  leaves  of  the  flower  on  my  left  hand  jnst  brushed 
my  oheek  as  I  lightly  rested  my  head  against  the  railing. 

The  first  sounds  that  reached  me  from  below  were  caused 
by  the  opening  or  closing  (most  probably  the  latter)  oi 
three  doors  in  succession — the  doors,  no  doubt,  leading  into 
the  hall,  and  into  the  rooms  on  each  side  of  the  library^ 
which  the  Count  had  pledged  himself  to  examine.  The 
first  object  that  1  saw  was  the  red  spark  again  traveling 
out  into  the  night,  from  under  the  veranda,  movmg  away 
toward  my  window,  waiting  a  momei>t,  and  then  returning 
\o  the  place  from  which  it  had  set  out. 

"  The  devil  take  your  restlessness!  When  do  you  mean 
to  sit  down?"  growled  Sir  Percival's  voice  beneath  me. 

"  Ouf !  how  hot  it  is!"  said  the  Count,  sighing  and 
puffing  wearily. 

His  exclamation  was  follow,  d  by  the  scraping  of  the  gar- 
den chairs  on  the  tiled  pavement  under  the  veranda — the 
welcome  sound  which  told  me  they  were  going  to  sit  close 
at  the  window,  as  usual.  So  far  the  chance  was  mine. 
The  clock  in  the  turret  struck  the  quarter  to  twelve  as  they 
settled  themselves  in  their  chairs.  I  heard  Mine.  Fosco 
through  the  open  window,  yawning,  and  saw  her  shadow 
pass  once  more  across  the  white  field  of  the  blind. 

Meanwhile,  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  began  talking 
together  below,  now  and  then  dropping  their  voices  a  little 
lower  than  usual,  but  never  sinking  them  to  a  whisper. 
The  strangeness  and  peril  of  my  situation,  the  dread,  which 
I  could  not  master,  of  Mme.  Fosco's  lighted  window,  made 
it  difficult,  almost  impossible  for  me,  at  first,  to  keep  my 
presence  of  mind,  and  to  fix  my  attention  solely  on  the 
conversation  beneath.  For  some  minutes,  1  could  only 
succeed  in  gathering  the  general  substance  of  it.  I  under- 
stood the  Count  to  say  that  the  one  window  alight  was  his 
wife's;  that  the  ground  floor  of  the  house  was  quite  clear; 
and  that  they  might  now  speak  to  each  other  without  fear 
of  accidents.  Sir  Percival  merely  answered  by  upbraiding 
his  friend  with  having  unjustifiably  slighted  his  wishes  and 
neglected  his  interests  ail  through  the  day.  The  Count, 
thereupon,  defended  himself  by  declaring  that  he  had  been 
beset  by  certain  troubles  and  anxieties  which  had  absorbed 
all  his  attention,  and  that  the  only  safe  time  to  come  to 
an  explanation  was  a  time  when  they  could  feel  certain  of 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  315 

being  neither  interrupted  nor  overheard.  "  We  are  at  a 
serious  crisis  in  our  affairs,  Percival,"  he  said;  "  and  if  we 
are  to  decide  on  the  future  at  all,  we  must  decide  secretly 
to-night," 

That  sentence  of  the  Count's  was  the  first  which  my  at- 
tention was  ready  enough  to  master,  exactly  as  it  was  spoken. 
From  this  point,  with  certain  breaks  and  interruptions,  ray 
whole  interest  fixed  breathlessly  on  the  conversation,  and 
I  followed  it  word  for  word. 

"  Crisis?"  repeated  Sir  Percival.  *'  It's  a  worse  crisis 
ihan  you  think  for,  1  can  tell  you." 

"  So  I  should  suppose,  from  your  behavior  for  the  last 
day  or  two,"  returned  the  other,  coolly.  "  But  wait  a 
little.  Before  we  advance  to  what  1  do  not  know,  let  us 
be  quite  certain  of  what  1  do  know.  Let  us  first  see  if  I 
am  right  about  the  time  that  is  past,  before  I  make  any 
proposals  to  you  for  the  time  that  is  to  come." 

"  Stop  till  I  get  the  brandy  and  water.  Have  some  your- 
self?" 

"  Thank  you,  Percival.  The  cold  water  with  pleasure, 
a  spoon,  and  the  basin  of  sugar.  Eau  sucree,  my  friend 
— nothing  more." 

"  Sugar  and  water,  for  a  man  of  your  age!  There!  mix 
your  sickly  mess     You  foreigners  are  all  alike." 

"  Now  listen,  Percival.  I  will  put  our  position  plainly 
before  you,  as  1  understand  it;  and  you  shall  say  if  I  am 
right  or  wrong.  You  and  I  both  came  back  to  this  house 
from  the  Continent  with  our  affairs  very  seriously  embar- 
rassed— " 

"  Cut  it  short!  1  wanted  some  thousands,  and  you  some 
hundreds — and,  without  money,  we  were  both  in  a  fair  way 
to  go  to  the  dogs  together.  There's  the  situation.  Make 
what  you  can  of  it.     Go  on." 

"  Well,  Percival,  in  your  own  solid  English  words,  you 
wanted  some  thousands  and  I  wanted  some  hundreds;  and 
the  only  way  of  getting  them  was  for  you  to  raise  the  money 
for  your  own  necessity  (with  a  small  margin  beyond  for 
my  poor  little  hundreds)  by  the  help  of  your  wife.  What 
did  I  tell  you  about  your  wife  on  our  way  to  England?  and 
what  did  I  tell  you  again,  when  we  had  come  here,  and 
when  I  had  seen  for  myself  the  sort  of  a  woman  Miss  Hal- 
combe  was?" 


316  THE    WOMAN    m    WHITE. 

"  Row  should  I  kuow?  You  talked  uiaeteeii  to  the  dozen, 
I  suppose,  just  as  usual." 

"  I  said  this:  Hunian  ingenuity,  my  friend,  has  hitherto 
only  discovered  two  ways  in  which  a  man  can  manage  a 
woman.  Oup  way  is  to  knock  iier  down — a  method  largely 
ado[)ted  by  the  brutal  lower  orders  of  the  people,  but  ut- 
terly abhorrent  to  the  refined  and  educated  classes  above 
Lhem.  The  other  way  (much  longer,  much  more  diihcult, 
but,  in  the  end,  not  less  ceitaiuX  is  never  to  accept  a  prov- 
ocaliou  at  a  woman's  hands.  It  holds  with  animals,  it 
holds  with  children,  and  it  holds  with  women,  who  are 
nothing  but  children  grown  up.  Quiet  resolution  is  the 
one  quality  the  animals,  the  children,  and  the  women^  all 
fail  in.  If  they  can  once  shake  this  superior  quality  in  their 
master,  they  get  the  better  of  Inni.  If  they  can  never 
succeed  in  disturbing  it,  he  gets  the  better  of  f/teni.  1  said 
to  you.  Remember  that  plain  truth,  when  you  want  your 
wife  to  help  you  to  the  money.  I  said,  llemember  it  doubly 
and  trebly,  in  the  presence  of  your  wife's  sister^  Miss  Hal- 
combe.  Have  you  remembered  it?  Not  once,  in  all  the 
complications  that  nave  twisted  themselves  about  us  in  this 
house.  Every  provocation  that  your  wife  and  her  sister 
could  offer  to  you,  you  instantly  accepted  from  them. 
Your  mad  temper  lost  the  signature  to  the  deed,  lost  the 
ready  money,  set  Miss  Halcombe  writing  to  the  lawyer  for 
the  first  time — "' 

*'  First  time?     Has  she  written  again?" 

"  Yes;  she  has  written  again  to-day." 

A  chair  fell  on  the  pavement  of  the  veranda — fell  with  a 
crash,  as  if  it  had  been  kicked  down. 

It  was  well  for  me  that  the  ('ount's  revelation  roused  Sir 
Percival'sangerasit  did.  On  hearing  tliut  1  had  been  once 
more  discovered,  I  started  so  that  the  railing  against  which 
I  leaned  cracked  again.  Had  he  followed  me  to  the  innr 
Did  he  infer  that  1  must  have  given  my  letters  to  Fanny, 
when  I  told  him  I  had  none  for  the  post-bag?  Even  if  it 
was  so,  how  could  he  have  examined  the  letters,  when  they 
had  gone  straight  from  my  hand  to  the  b^som  of  the  girl's 
dress? 

"  Thank  your  lucky  star,"  1  heard  the  Count  say  next, 
*'  that  you  have  me  in  the  house,  to  undo  the-harm  as  fast 
as  you  do  it.  Thank  your  h.'ckv  star  that  1  said  No,  when 
you  were  mad  enough  to  talk  of  turning  the  key  to-day  on 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITK  31? 

Miss  Halcombe,  as  you  turned  it,  in  your  mischievous  folly, 
on  your  wife.  Where  are  your  eyes?  (Jan  you  look  at 
Miss  Halconibe,  and  not  see  that  she  has  the  foresight 
and  the  resolution  of  a  man?  With  that  woman  for  my 
friend,  1  would  snap  these  fingers  of  mine  at  the  world. 
With  that  woman  for  my  enemy,  I,  with  all  my  brains  and 
experience — I,  Fosco,  cunning  as  the  devil  himself,  as  you. 
have  told  me  a  hundred  times— 1  walk,  in  your  English 
phrase,  upon  egg-shells!  And  thisgratid  creature — I  drink 
her  health  in  my  sugar  and  water — this  grand  creature, 
who  stands,  in  the  strength  of  her  love  and  her  courage, 
firm  as  a  rock  between  us  two  and  that  poor  flimsy,  pretty 
blonde  wife  of  yours — this  magnificent  woman,  whom  I 
admire  with  all  my  soul,  though  I  oppose  her  in  your  in- 
terests and  in  mine,  5'ou  drive  to  extremities,  as  if  she  was 
no  sharper  and  no  bolder  than  the  rest  of  her  sex.  Perci- 
val!  Percival!  you  deserve  to  fail,  and  you  have  failed." 

There  was  a  pause.  1  write  the  villain's  words  about 
myself  because  I  mean  to  remember  thera,  because  I  hope 
yet  for  the  day  when  1  may  speak  out  once  for  all  in  his 
presence,  and  cast  them  back,  one  by  one,  in  his  teeth. 

Sir  Percival  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence  again. 

"  Yes,  yes,  bully  and  bluster  as  much  as  you  like/'  he 
said,  sulkily;  "  the  difficulty  about  the  money  is  not  the 
only  difficulty.  You  would  be  for  taking  strong  measures 
with  the  women,  yourself — if  you  knew  as  mucii  as  1  do." 

"We  will  come  to  that  second  difficulty  all  in  good 
time,"  rejoined  the  Count.  "  You  may  confuse  yourself, 
Percival,  as  much  as  you  please,  but  you  shall  not  confuse 
me.  Let  the  question  of  the  money  be  settled  first.  Have 
I  convinced  your  obstinacy?  have  I  shown  you  that  your 
temper  will  not  let  you  help  yourself?  Or  must  I  go  back 
and  (as  you  put  it  in  your  dear,  straightforward  English) 
bully  and  bluster  a  little  more?" 

"  Pooh!  It's  easy  enough  to  grumble  at  me.  Say 
what  is  to  be  done — that's  a  little  harder." 

"  Is  it?  Bah!  This  is  what  is  to  be  done:  You  give  up 
all  direction  in  the  business  from  to-night;  you  leave  it,  for 
the  future,  in  my  hands  only.  1  am  talking  to  a  Practical 
British  man — ha?     Well,  Practical,  will  that  do  for  you?'* 

"  Wliat  do  you  propose,  if  I  leave  it  all  to  you?" 

"  Answer  me  first.      Is  it  lo  be  in  my  hands  or  not?" 

"  Say  it  is  in  your  hands — what  then?" 


813  THE  wo^rAN   in  white. 

"  A  few  questions,  Percival,  to  begin  with.  I  must  wait  a 
little,  yet,  to  let  circumstances  guide  me;  and  1  must  know 
in  every  possible  way,  what  those  circumstances  are  lilcely 
to  be.  There  is  no  time  to  lose.  1  have  told  you  already 
that  Miss  Halcombe  has  written  to  the  lawyer  to-day  for  the 
second  time.'' 

"  How  did  you  find  it  out?    What  did  she  say?" 

"  If  I  told  you,  Percival,  we  should  only  come  back  at 
the  end  to  where  we  are  now.  Enough  that  I  have  found 
"it  out — and  the  finding  has  caused  that  trouble  and  anxiety 
which  made  me  so  inaccessible  to  you  all  through  to-day. 
Kow,  to  refresh  my  memory  about  your  affairs— it  is  some 
time  since  I  talked  them  over  with  you.  The  money  has 
been  raised,  in  the  absence  of  your  wife's  signature,  by 
means  of  bills  at  three  months — raised  at  a  cost  that  makes 
my  poverty-stricken  foreign  hair  to  stand  on  end  to  think 
of  itl  When  the  bills  are  due,  is  there  really  and  truly  no 
earthly  wavof  paying  them  but  by  the  help  of  your  wife*'' 

"  None." 
*    "  What!     You  have  no  money  at  the  banker's?"' 

"  A  few  hundreds,  when  I  want  as  many  thousands." 

"  Have  you  no  other  security  to  borrow  upon?'' 

*'Nota^shred." 

"  What  have  you  actually  got  with  your  wife  at  the 
present  moment?" 

"  Nothing  but  the  interest  of  her  twenty  thousand  pounds 
—  barely  enough  to  pay  our  daily  expenses." 

'"  What  do  you  expect  from  your  wife?" 

"  Three  thousand  a  year,  v/hen  her  uncle  dies." 

"  A  fine  fortune,  Percival.  What  sort  of  a  man  is  thie. 
uncle?    Old?" 

"  No — neither  old  nor  young." 

"  A  good-tempered,  freely  living  man?  Married?  No— 
I  think  my  wife  told  me,  not  married." 

"  Of  course  not.  If  he  was  married,  and  had  a  son. 
Lady  Glyde  would  not  be  the  next  heir  to  the  property. 
I'll  tell  you  what  he  is.  He's  a  maudlin,  twaddhng,  selfish 
fool,  and  bores  everybody  who  comes  near  him  about  the 
state  of  his  health." 

"  Men  of  that  sort,  Percival,  live  long,  and  marry  mal- 
evolently when  you  least  expect  it.  I  don't  give  you  much, 
my  friend,  for  your  chance  of  three  thousand  a  year.  lb 
there  nothing  more  that  comes  to  you  from  your  wife?" 


THE    WOiMAN    IN    WHITE.  819 

••  Nothing. " 

"  Absolutely  nothing?" 

"  Absolutely  nothing — except  in  case  of  her  death." 

"  Alia!  in  the  case  of  her  death." 

There  was  another  pause.  The  Count  moved  from  the 
veranda  to  the  gravel-walk  outside,  I  knew  that  he  had 
moved  by  his  voice.  "  The  rain  has  come  at  last,"  I 
heard  him  say.  It  had  come.  The  state  of  my  cloak 
showed  that  it  had  been  falling  thickly  for  some  little 
time. 

The  Count  went  back  under  the  veranda — I  heard  the 
chair  creak  beneath  his  weight  as  he  sat  down  in  it  again. 

"  Well,  Percival,"  he  said;  "  and  in  case  of  Lady  Glyde'a 
death,  what  do  you  get  then?" 

"  If  she  leaves  no  children — " 

''  Which  she  is  likely  to  do?" 

"  Which  she  is  not  in  the  least  likely  to  do — " 

"Yes?" 

*'  Why,  then  1  get  her  twenty  thousand  pounds." 

"  Paid  down?" 

"Paid  down." 

They  were  silent  once  more.  As  their  voices  ceased, 
Mme.  I'osco's  shadow  darkened  the  blind  again.  Instead 
of  })assing  this  time,  it  remained,  for  a  moment,  quite  still. 
I  saw  her  fingers  steal  round  the  corner  of  the  blind,  and 
draw  it  on  one  side.  The  dim  white  outline  of  her  face, 
looking  out  straight  over  me,  appeared  behind  the  window. 
1  kept  still,  shrouded  from  head  to  foot  in  my  black  cloak. 
The  rain,  which  was  fast  wetting  me,  dripped  over  the  glass, 
blurred  it,  and  prevented  her  from  seeing  anything,  "  More 
rain!"  I  heard  her  say  to  herself.  She  dropped  the  blind 
— and  1  breathed  again  freely. 

The  talk  went  on  below  me,  the  Count  resuming  it  this 
time, 

"  Percival!  do  you  care  about  your  wife?" 

"  Fosco!  that's  rather  a  downright  question." 

"  I  am  a  downright  man,  and  I  repeat  it," 

"  Why  the  devil  do  you  look  at  me  in  that  way?" 

"  You  won't  answer  me?  Well,  then,  let  us  say  yow 
trife  dies  before  the  summer  is  out — " 

"  Drop  it,  Fosco!" 

"  Let  us  say  your  wife  dies — " 

"  Drop  it,  I  tell  you!" 


880  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

*'  111  that  case,  you  would  gain  tweuty  thousand  pounds, 
and  you  would  lose — " 

"  1  should  lose  the  chance  of  three  thousand  a  year." 

"  The  rentofe  chance,  Percival — the  remote  chance  only. 
And  you  want  money  at  once.  In  your  position  the  gain 
is  certain — the  loss  doubtful." 

"  Speak  for  yourself  as  well  as  for  me.  Some  of  the 
money  I  want  has  been  borrowed  for  you.  And  if  you 
come  to  gain,  w//  wife's  death  would  be  ten  thousand  pounds 
in  your  wife's  pocket.  Siiarp  as  you  are,  you  seem  lo 
have  conveniently  forgotten  Madame  Fosco's  legacy. 
Don't  look  at  me  in  that  way!  1  won't  have  it!  What 
with  your  looks  and  your  questions,  upon  my  soul,  you 
make  my  flesh  creep!" 

"  Your  flesh?  Does  flesh  mean  conscience  in  English? 
I  speak  of  your  wife's  death  as  I  speak  of  a  possibility. 
Why  not?  The  respectable  lawyers  who  scribble-scrabble 
your  deeds  and  your  wills  look  the  deatlis  of  living  people 
in  the  face.  Do  lawyers  make  your  flesh  creep?  Why 
should  1?  It  is  my  business  to-night  to  clear  up  your 
position  beyond  the  possibility  of  mistake — and  I  have  now 
done  it.  Here  is  your  position.  If  your  wife  lives,  you  pay 
those  bills  with  her  signature  to  the  parchment.  If  your 
wife  dies,  you  puy  them  with  her  death." 

As  he  spoke,  the  light  in  Mme.  Fosco's  room  was  ex- 
tinguished, and  the  whole  second  floor  of  the  house  was  novf 
sunk  in  darkness. 

"Talk!  talk!"  grumbled  Sir  PercivaL  "One  would 
think,  to  hear  you,  that  my  wife's  signature  to  the  deed 
was  got  already. " 

"  You  have  left  the  matter  in  my  hands,"  retorted  the 
Count,  "  and  I  have  more  than  two  months  before  me  to 
turn  round  in.  Say  no  more  about  it,  if  you  please,  for 
the  present.  When  the  bills  are  due,  you  will  see  for  your- 
self if  my  '  talk!  talk!'  is  worth  something,  or  if  it  is  not. 
And  now,  Percival,  having  done  with  the  money  matters  for 
to-night,  I  can  place  my  attention  at  your  disposal,  if  you 
wish  to  consult  me  on  that  second  ditiiculty  which  has 
mixed  itself  up  with  our  little  embarrassments,  and  which 
iiji.-!  so  altered  you  for  the  worse  that  I  hardly  know  you 
attain.  Speak,  my  friend — and  pardon  me  if  I  shock  your 
fi'i-v  national  tastes  by  mixing  myself  a  second  glass  of  sugar 
aj.'d  water." 


'IHE    WOMAN-     IK    WHITE.  321 

"  It's  very  wt-ll  to  say  sptak,"  replied  Sir  Percival,  in  a 
far  more  quiet  and  more  [)olite  tone  than  he  had  yet 
adopted;  "  but  it's  not  so  ecisy  to  know  how  to  begin.'" 

"  Shall  I  help  you?"  suggested  the  Count.  "  Shall  1 
give  this  private  ditliculty  of  vours  a  name?  What  if  1 
call  it — Anne  Catherick?" 

"  Look  here,  Fosco,  you  and  I  have  known  each  other 
for  a  long  time;  and  if  you  have  helped  me  out  of  one  or 
two  scrapes  before  this,  J  have  done  the  best  I  could  to 
"help  you  in  return,  as  far  as  money  would  go.  We  have 
made  as  many  friendly  sacrifices  on  both  sides,  as  men 
could;  but  we  have  had  our.  secrets  from  each  other,  of 
course — haven't  we?" 

"  You  have  had  a  secret  from  me,  Percival.  There  is  a 
skeleton  in  your  cupboard  here  at  Blackwater  Park  that  has 
peeped  out,  in  these  last  few  days,  at  other  people  besides 
yourself.^' 

"  Well,  suppose  it  has.  If  it  doesn't  concern  you,  you 
needn't  be  curious  about  it,  need  you?" 

"  Do  1  look  curious  about  it?" 

"Yes,  you  do." 

"So!  so!  my  face  speaks  the  truth,  then?  What  an 
immense  foundation  of  good  there  must  be  in  the  nature 
of  a  man  who  arrives  at  my  age,  and  whose  face  has  not 
yet  lost  the  habit  of  speaking  the  truth!  Come,  Glyde! 
let  us  be  candid  one  with  the  other.  This  secret  of  yours 
has  sought  me:  I  have  not  sought  it.  Let  us  say  I  am 
curious— -do  you  ask  me,  as  your  old  frierid,  to  respect  your 
secret,  and  to  leave  it,  once  for  all,  in  your  own  keep- 
ing?" 

"  Yes — that's  just  what  I  do  ask." 

"  Then  my  curiosity  is  at  an  end.  It  dies  iu  me,  from 
this  moment." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that?" 

"  What  makes  you  doubt  me?" 

"  I  have  had  some  experience,  Fosco,  of  your  roundabout 
ways;  and  I  am  not  so  sure  that  you  won't  worm  it  out  of 
me  after  all." 

The  chair  below  suddenly  creaked  again — I  felt  the  trellis- 
work  pillar  under  me  shake  from  top  to  bottom.  The 
Count  had  started  to  his  feet,  and  had  struck  it  with  his 
hand,  in  indignation. 

"Percival!  Percival!"  he  cried,  passionately,  "do  you 


322  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

know  me  no  better  than  that?  flas  all  your  experience 
shown  you  nothing  of  my  character  yet?  I  am  a  man  of 
the  antique  type!  1  am  capable  of  the  most  exalted  acts 
of  virtue — when  I  have  the  chance  of  performing  them.  It 
has  been  tiie  misfortune  of  my  life  that  1  have  had  few 
chances.  My  conception  of  friendship  is  sublime!  Is  it 
my  fault  that  your  skeleton  has  peeped  out  at  me?  Why 
do  1  confess  my  curiosity?  You  poor,  superficial  English- 
man, it  is  to  magnify  my  own  self-control?  I  could  draw 
your  secret  out  of  you,  if  I  liked,  as  I  draw  this  finger  out 
of  the  palm  of  my  hand — you  know  I  could!  But  you  have 
appealed  to  my  friendship,  and  the  duties  of  friendship  are 
sacred  to  me.  See!  I  trample  my  base  curiosity  under 
my  feet.  My  exalted  sentiments  lift  me  above  it.  Recog- 
nize them,  Percival!  imitate  them,  Percival!  Shake  hands 
— I  forgive  you.^' 

His  voice  faltered  over  the  last  words — faltered  as  if  he 
was  actually  shedding  tears. 

Sir  Percival  confusedly  attempted  to  excuse  himself. 
But  the  Count  was  too  magnanimous  to  listen  to  him. 

*'  No!''  he  said.  "  When  my  friend  has  wounded  me>  I 
can  pardon  him  without  apologies.  Tell  me,  in  plaiq 
words,  do  you  want  my  help?" 

"  Yes,  badly  enough." 

"  And  you  can  ask  for  it  without  compromising  youv- 
self?" 

"  I  can  try,  at  any  rate." 

"Try,  then." 

"  Well,  this  is  how  it  stands:  I  told  you  to-day  that  \ 
had  done  my  best  to  find  Anne  Catherick,  and  failed?" 

"  l^es,  you  did." 

"  Fosco!  I'm  a  lost  man  if  1  don't  find  her." 

"  Ha!     Is  it  so  serious  as  that?" 

A  little  stream  of  light  traveled  out  under  the  veranda, 
aiid  fell  over  the  gravel-walk.  The  Count  had  taken  the 
lamp  from  the  inner  part  of  the  room,  to  see  his  friend 
cioarly  by  the  light  of  it. 

"  Yes!"  he  said,  "  Your  face  speaks  the  truth  this  time^ 
Serious,  indeed— as  serious  as  the  money  matters  them- 
selves. " 

"  More  serious.     As  true  as  I  sit  here,  more  serious!" 

Till!  light  disappeared  again,  and  the  talk  went  on. 

*'  1  showed  you  the  letter  to  my  wife  that  Aune  Gather- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  330 

fck  hid  in  the  sand,"  Sir  Percival  continued.    "  There's  no 
boasting  in  that  letter,  Fosco — she  does  know  the  Secret." 

"  Say  as  little  as  possible,  Percival,  in  my  presence,  of 
the  Secret.     Does  she  know  it  from  you?" 

"No;  from  her  mother." 

*'  Two  women  in  possession  of  your  private  mind — bad, 
bad,  bad,  my  friend!  One  question  here,  before  we  go  any 
further.  The  motive  of  your  shutting  up  the  daughter 
in  the  asylum  is  now  plain  enough  to  me — but  the  manner 
of  her  escape  is  not  quite  so  clear.  Do  you  suspect  the 
people  in  charge  of  her  of  closing  their  eyes  purposely,  at 
the  instance  of  some  enemy  who  could  afford  to  make  it 
worth  their  while?" 

"  No;  she  was  the  best-behaved  patient  they  had — and, 
like  fools,  they  trusted  her.  She's  just  mad  enough  to  be 
shut  up,  and  just  sane  enough  to  ruin  me  when  she's  at 
large — if  you  understand  that?" 

"  1  do  understand  it.  Now,  Percival,  come  at  once  to 
the  point;  and  then  I  shall  know  what  to  do.  Where  is 
the  danger  of  your  position  at  the  present  moment?" 

"  Anne  Catherick  is  in  this  neighborhood,  and  in  com- 
munication with  Lady  Glyde — thtre's  the  danger,  plain 
enough.  Who  can  read  the  letter  she  hid  in  the  sand,  and 
not  see  that  my  wife  is  in  possession  of  the  secret,  deny  it 
as  she  may?" 

"  One  moment,  Percival.  If  Lady  Glyde  does  know  the 
secret  she  must  know,  also,  that  it  a  compromising  secret 
for  you.  As  your  wife,  surely  it  is  her  interest  to  keep  it?" 

"  Is  it?  I'm  coming  to  that.  Jt  might  be  her  interest 
if  she  cared  two  straws  about  me.  But  1  happen  to  be  an 
incumbrance  in  the  way  of  another  man.  She  was  in  love 
with  him  before  she  married  me — she's  in  love  with  him 
now — an  infernal  vagabond  of  a  drawing-master,  named 
Hartright." 

"  My  dear  friend!  what  is  there  extraordinary  in  that? 
Tliey  are  all  in  love  with  some  other  man.  Who  gets  the 
first  of  a  woman's  heart?  In  all  my  experience  1  have 
never  yet  met  with  the  man  who  was  Number  One.  Nuai- 
ber  Two,  sometimes.  Number  Three,  Four,  P'ive,  often. 
Number  One,  never!  He  exists,  of  course — butl  have  not 
met  with  him." 

"  Wait!  I  haven't  done  yet.  Who  do  you  think  helped 
Anne  Catherick  to  get  the  start  when  the  people  from  the 


334  THR    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

mad-house  were  after  her?  Hartright.  Who  do  you  think 
saw  her  again  in  Cumberland?  Hartright.  Both  times  he 
spoke  to  her  alone.  Stop!  don't  interrupt  me.  The 
scoundrel's  as  sweet  on  my  wife  as  she  is  on  hirn.  He 
knows  the  secret,  and  she  knows  the  secret.  Once  let  them 
both  get  together  again,  and  it's  her  interest  and  his  inter- 
est to  turn  their  intormation  against  me." 

"  Gently,  Percival — gently.  Are  you  insensible  to  the 
rirtue  of  Lady  Glyde?" 

"  That  for  the  virtue  of  Lady  Glyde!  I  believe  in  noth- 
ing about  her  but  her  money.  Don't  you  see  how  the  case 
stands?  She  might  be  harmless  enough  by  herself;  but  if 
she  and  that  vagabond  Hartright — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  1  see.     Where  is  Mr.  Hartright?" 

"  Out  of  the  country.  If  he  means  to  keep  a  whole  skin 
on  his  bones,  1  recommend  him  not  to  come  back  in  a 
hurry." 

"  Are  you  sure  he  is  out  of  the  country?" 

"  Certain.  I  had  him  watched  irom  the  time  he  left 
Cumberland  to  the  time  he  sailed.  Oh,  I've  been  careful, 
I  can  tell  you!  Anne  Catherick  lived  with  some  people  at 
a  farm-house  near  Limmeridge.  1  went  there  myself  after 
she  had  given  me  the  slip,  and  made  sure  that  they  knew 
nothing.  I  gave  her  mother  a  form  of  letter  to  write  to 
Miss  Halcombe,  exonerating  me  from  any  bad  motive  in 
putting  her  under  restranu.  I've  spent,  I'm  afraid  to  say 
how  much,  in  trying  to  trace  her.  And,  in  spite  of  it  all, 
F.he  turns  up  here,  and  escapes  me  on  my  own  property! 
How  do  I  know  who  else  may  see  her  here,  who  else  may 
speak  to  her?  That  pryii^g  scoundrel,  Hartright,  may  come 
back  without  my  knowing  it,  and  may  make  use  of  her  to- 
morrow—  " 

"  Not  he,  Percival!  While  1  am  on  the  spot,  and  while 
that  woman  is  in  the  neighborhood,  I  will  answer  for  our 
hiying  hands  on  her  before  Mr.  Hartright — even  if  he  does 
come  back.  1  see!  yes,  yes,  I  see!  The  finding  of  Anne 
Catherick  is  the  first  necessity:  make  your  mind  easy  about 
the  rest.  Your  wife  is  here,  under  your  thumb;  Miss  Hal- 
combe is  inseparable  from  her,  and  is,  therefore,  under  your 
thumb  also;  and  Mr.  Hartright  is  out  of  the  country,  Thi.« 
iiivisible  An)ie  of  yours  is  all  we  have  to  think  erf  for  tiy 
prtiueut,     Yow  have  made  your  inquiries?" 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  ,S35 

**  Yes.    I  have  been  to  her  mother,  I  have  ransacked  the 

rillage — and  all  to  no  purpose." 

"  Is  her  mother  to  be  depended  on?" 

'^Yes." 

''  She  has  toM  your  secret  once/' 

"She  won't  tell  it  again." 

*'  Why  not?  Are  her  own  interests  concerned  in  keep- 
,flg  it,  as  well  as  yours?" 

"  Yes — deeply  concerned." 

"  1  am  glad  to  hear  it,  Percival,  for  your  sake.  Don't 
be  discouraged,  my  friend.  Our  money  matters,  as  I  told 
you,  leave  me  plenty  of  time  to  turn  round  in;  and  /may 
search  for  Anne  Catherick  to-morrow  to  better  purpose 
than  you.     One  last  question,  before  we  go  to  bed." 

"  What  is  it?" 

"  It  is  this.  When  1  went  to  the  boat-house  to  tell  Larly 
Glyde  that  the  little  difficulty  of  her  signature  was  put  off, 
accident  took  me  there  in  time  to  see  a  strange  woman 
parting  in  a  very  suspicious  manner  from  your  wife.  But 
accidents  did  not  bring  me  near  enough  to  see  this  same 
woman's  face  plainly.  I  must  know  how  to  recognize  our 
invisible  Anne.     What  is  she  like?" 

"  Like?  Come!  I'll  tell  you  in  two  words.  She's  a 
sickly  likeness  of  my  wife." 

The  chair  creaked,  and  the  pillar  shook  once  more.  The 
Count  was  on  his  feet  again — this  time  in  astonishment. 

"'  What!  !  !"  he  exclaimed,  eagerly. 

"  Fancy  my  wife,  after  a  bad  illness,  with  a  touch  of 
something  wrong  in  her  head — and  there  is  Anne  Catherick 
for  you,"  answered  Sir  Percival. 

"  Are  they  related  to  each  other?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  And  yet  so  hke?" 

*'  Yes,  so  like.     What  are  you  laughing  about?*' 

There  was  no  answer,  and  no  souud  of  any  kind.  The 
Oount  was  laughing  in  his  smooth,  silent,  internal  way. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  about?"  reiterated  Sir  Percival. 

*'  Perhaps  at  my  own  fancies,  my  good  friend.  Allow 
me  my  Italian  humor— do  I  not  come  of  the  illustrious  na- 
tion which  invented  the  exhibition  of  Punch?  Weil,  well, 
well,  1  shall  know  Anne  Catherick  when  1  see  her— and  so 
enough  for  to-night.  Make  your  mind  easy,  Percival. 
Sleep,  my  sou,  the  sleep  of  the  just;  and  see  what  1  will  do 


326  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

for  you,  when  daylight  comes  to  help  us  both.  I  have 
my  projects  and  my  plans,  here  iu  my  big  head.  You  shall 
pay  those  bills  and  find  Anne  Cailierick — my  sacred  word 
of  honor  on  it,  but  you  shall!  Am  I  a  friend  to  be  treas- 
ured iu  the  best  corner  of  your  heart,  or  am  not?  Am  I 
worth  those  loans  of  money  which  you  so  delicately  re- 
minded me  of  a  little  while  since?  Whatever  you  do, 
never  wound  me  in  my  sentiments  any  more.  Recognize 
them,  Percival!  imitate  them,  Percival!  I  forgive  you 
again;  I  shake  hands  again.     Good-night.'* 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  I  heard  the  Count  close 
the  library  door.  I  heard  Sir  Percival  barring  up  the 
window-shutters.  It  had  been  raining,  raining  all  the  time, 
f  was  cramped  by  my  position,  and  chilled  to  the  bones. 
When  I  first  tried  to  move,  the  effort  was  so  painful  to  me, 
that  I  was  obliged  to  desist.  I  tried  a  second  time,  and 
succeeded  in  rising  to  my  knees  on  the  wet  roof. 

As  I  crept  to  the  wall,  and  raised  myself  against  it,  1 
looked  back,  and  saw  the  window  of  the  Count's  dressing- 
room  gleam  into  light.  My  sinking  courage  fiickered  up 
in  me  again,  and  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  his  window,  as  1 
stole  my  way  back,  step  by  step,  past  the  wall  of  the  house. 

The  clock  struck  the  quarter  after  one  when  1  laid  my 
hands  on  the  window-sill  of  my  own  room.  I  had  keen 
nothing  and  heard  nothing  which  could  lead  me  to  suppose 
that  my  retreat  had  been  discovered. 


X. 

June  20th.  Eight  o'clock. — The  sun  is  shining  in  a  clear 
sky.  I  have  not  been  near  my  bed — I  have  not  once  closed 
my  weary,  wakeful  eyes.  From  the  same  window  at  which 
I  looked  out  into  the  darkness  of  last  night,  1  look  out  now 
at  the  bright  stillness  of  the  morning. 

1  count  the  hours  that  have  passed  since  1  escaped  to  the 
shelter  of  this  room  by  my  own  sensations — and  those 
hours  seem  like  weeks. 

How  short  a  time,  and  yet  how  long  to  me,  since  1  sunk 
down  in  the  darkness  here,  on  the  floor,  drenched  to  the 
skin,  cramped  in  every  limb,  cold  to  the  bones,  a  useless, 
helpless,  panic-stricken  creature. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  33? 

I  hardly  know  when  I  roused  myself.  1  hardly  know 
vrhen  1  groped  my  way  back  to  the  bedroom,  and  lighted 
the  candle  and  searched  (with  a  strange  ignorance,  as  first, 
of  where  to  look  for  them)  for  dry  clothes  to  warm  me. 
The  doing  of  these  things  is  in  my  mind,  but  not  the  time 
when  they  were  done. 

Can  1  even  remember  when  the  chilled,  cramped  feeling 
eft  me,  and  the  throbbing  heat  came  in  its  place.'' 

Surely  it  was  before  the  sun  rose?  Yes;  1  heard  the 
ch)ck  strike  there.  1  remember  the  time  by  the  sudden 
brightuess  and  clearness,  the  feverish  strain  and  excite- 
ment of  ail  my  faculties  which  came  with  it.  I  remember 
my  resolution  to  control  myself,  to  wait  patiently  hour  after 
hour,  till  the  chance  offered  of  removing  Laura  from  this 
horrible  place,  without  the  danger  of  immediate  discovery 
and  pursuit.  1  remember  the  persuasion  settling  itself  in 
my  mind  that  the  words  those  two  men  had  said  to  each 
other  would  furnish  us,  not  only  with  our  justification  for 
leaving  the  house,  but  with  our  weapons  of  defense  against 
them  as  well.  I  recall  the  impulse  that  awakened  in  me 
to  preserve  those  words  in  writing,  exactly  as  they  were 
spoken,  while  the  time  was  my  own,  and  while  my  memory 
vividly  retained  them.  All  this  1  remember  plainly:  there 
is  no  confusion  in  my  head  yet.  The  coming  in  here  from 
the  bedroom,  with  my  pen  and  ink  and  paper,  before  sun- 
rise— the  sitting  down  at  the  widely  opened  window,  to  get 
all  the  air  1  could  to  cool  me — the  ceaseless  writing,  faster 
and  faster,  hotter  and  hotter,  driving  on  more  and  more 
wakefully,  all  through  the  dreadful  interval  before  the 
house  was  astir  again — how  clearly  1  recall  it,  from  the  be- 
ginning by  candle-light,  to  the  end  on  the  page  before  this, 
in  the  sunshine  of  the  new  day! 

Why  do  I  sit  here  still.^  Why  do  1  weary  my  hot  eyes 
and  my  burning  head  by  writing  more?  Why  not  lie  down 
and  rest  myself,  and  try  to  quench  the  fever  that  consumes 
me  in  sleep? 

I  dare  not  attempt  it.  A  fear  beyond  all  other  fears  has 
got  possession  of  me.  1  am  afraid  of  this  heat  that  parches 
my  skin.  1  am  afraid  of  the  creeping  and  throbbing  that 
I  feel  in  my  head.  If  I  lie  down  now,  how  do  1  know  that 
1  may  have  the  sense  and  the  strength  to  rise  again? 

Oh,  the  rain,  the  rain — the  cruel  rain  that  chilled  m<» 
hi,st  night! 


F/^.S  thf:    woman   in   white. 

Nine  o\:loch. — "Was  it  nine  struck,  or  eight?  Nine, 
surely!  I  am  shivering  again — shivering  from  head  to 
foot,  in  the  sunmun-  air.  llave  I  been  sitting  here  asleep? 
I  don't  know  what  I  have  been  doing. 

Oh,  my  God!  am  1  going  to  be  iiJ? 

Ill,  at  such  a  time  as  this! 

My  head — I  am  sadly  afraid  of  my  head.  I  can  write, 
but  the  lines  all  run  together.  I  see  the  words.  Laura — 
I  can  write  Laura,  and  see  I  write  it.  Eight  or  nine — 
which  was  it? 

So  cold,  so  cold — oh,  that  rain  last  night! — and  the 
strokes  of  the  clock,  the  strokes  1  can't  count,  keep  strik- 
ing in  my  head  — 

:ti  *  ^  *  *  *  * 

NOTE. 

FAt  this  place  the  entry  in  the  Diary  ceases  to  be  legible. 
The  two  or  three  lines  which  follow  contain  fragments  of 
words  only,  mingled  with  blots  and  scratches  of  the  pen. 
The  last  marks  on  the  paper  bear  some  resemblance  to  the 
first  two  letters  (L  and  A)  of  the  name  of  Lady  Glyde. 

On  the  next  page  of  the  Diary  another  entry  appears.  It 
is  in  a  man's  handwriting,  large,  bold,  and  firmly  regular; 
end  the  date  is  "  June  the  21st."     It  contains  these  lines:] 

POSTSCllIPT   BY    A    SINCERE    FRIEND. 

The  illness  of  our  excellent  Miss  Halcombe  has  afforded 
inc  the  opportunity  of  enjoying  an  unexpected  pleasure. 

I  refer  to  the  perusal  (which  I  have  just  completed)  of 
this  interesting  Diary. 

There  are  many  hundred  pages  here.     1  can  lay  my  hand 
on  my  heart,  and  declare  that  every  page  has  charmed,  re 
freshed,  delighted  me. 

To  a  man  of  my  sentiments,  it  is  unspeakably  gratifying 
to  be  able  to  say  this. 

Admirable  woman! 

1  allude  to  Miss  Halcombe. 

Stupendous  effort! 

1  refer  to  the  Diary. 

Yes!  these  paues  are  amazing.  The  tact  which  1  find 
here,  the  discretion,  the  rare  courage,  the  wonderful  power 
of  memory,  the  accurate  observation  of  character,  the  easy 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  329 

grace  of  style,  the  charming  outbursts  of  womanly  feeling, 
have  all  inexpressibly  increased  my  admiration  of  this  sub- 
lime creature,  of  this  magnificent  Marian.  The  presenta- 
tion of  my  own  character  is  masterly  in  the  extreme.  1 
certify,  with  my  whole  heart,  to  the  fidelity  of  the  portrait, 
I  feel  how  vivid  an  impression  1  must  have  produced  to 
have  been  painted  in  such  strong,  such  rich,  such  massive 
colors  as  these.  I  lament  afresh  the  cruel  necessity  which 
sets  our  interests  at  variance,  and  opposes  us  to  each  other. 
Under  happier  circumstances  how  worthy  I  should  have 
been  of  Miss  Halcombe — how  worthy  Miss  Halcombe  would 
have  been  of  me. 

The  sentiments  which  animate  my  heart  assure  me  that 
the  lines  I  have  just  written  express  a  Profound  Truth. 

Those  sentiments  exalt  me  above  all  merely  personal  con- 
siderations. I  bear  witness,  in  the  most  disinterested  man- 
ner, to  the  excellence  of  the  stratagem  by  which  this  un- 
paralleled woman  surprised  the  private  interview  between 
Percival  and  myself.  Also  to  the  marvelous  accuracy  of 
her  report  of  the  whole  conversation,  from  its  beginning 
to  its  end. 

Those  sentiments  have  induced  me  to  offer  to  the  unim- 
pressionable doctor  who  attends  on  her  my  vast  knowledge 
of  chemistry,  and  my  luminous  experience  of  the  more 
subtle  resources  which  medical  and  magnetic  science  have 
placed  at  the  disposal  of  mankind.  He  has  hitherto  de- 
clined to  avail  himself  of  my  assistance.     Miserable  man! 

Finally,  those  sentiments  dictate  the  lines — grateful, 
sympathetic,  paternal  lines — which  appear  in  this  place. 
1  close  the  book.  My  strict  sense  of  propriety  restores  it 
(by  the  hands  of  my  wife)  to  its  place  on  the  writer's  table. 
Events  are  hurrying  me  away.  Circumstances  are  guiding 
me  to  serious  issues.  Vast  perspectives  of  success  unroll 
themselves  before  my  eyes,  I  accomplish  my  destiny  with 
a  calmness  which  is  terrible  to  myself.  Nothing  but  the 
homage  of  my  admiration  is  my  own.  I  desposit  it,  with 
respectful  tenderness,  &o  the  feet  of  Miss  Halcombe. 

I  breathe  my  wishes  for  her  recovery. 

1  condole  with  her  on  the  inevitable  failure  of  every  plan 
that  she  has  formed  for  her  sister's  benefit.  At  the  same 
time  I  entreat  her  to  believe  that  the  information  which  I 
have  derived  from  her  diary  will  in  no  respect  help  me  to 
contribute  to  that  failure.     It  simply  confirms  the  plan  of 


330  THE    WOxMAN    IN    WHITE. 

conduct  which  1  had  previously  arranged.  I  have  to  thank 
these  pages  for  awakening  the  finest  sensibilities  in  my  nat- 
ure— nothing  more. 

To  a  person  of  similar  sensibility  this  simple  assertioa 
will  explain  and  excuse  everything. 

Miss  Halcombe  is  a  person  of  similar  sensibility. 

In  that  persuasion,  I  sign  myself,  Fosco 


The  Story  continued  hy  Frederick   Fairlie,  Esq.,  oi' 
Limmeridge  House.* 

It  is  the  grand  misfortune  of  my  life  that  nobody  will 
let  me  alone. 

Why — 1  ask  everybody — why  worry  me?  Nobody  an- 
swers that  question,  and  nobody  lets  me  alone.  Relatives, 
friends,  and  sti-angers,  all  combine  to  annoy  me.  What 
have  1  done?  I  ask  myself,  I  ask  my  servant,  Louis,  fifty 
times  a  day — what  have  I  done?  Neither  of  us  can  tell. 
Most  extraordinary! 

The  last  annoyance  that  has  assailed  mo  is  the  annoyance 
of  being  called  upon  to  write  this  Narrative.  Is  a  man  in 
my  state  of  nervous  wretchedness  capable  of  writing  Nar- 
ratives? When  I  put  this  extremely  reasonable  objection, 
I  am  told  that  certain  very  serious  events,  relating  to  my 
niece,  have  happened  within  my  experience,  and  that  I  am 
the  fit  person  to  describe  them  on  that  account.  1  am 
threatened,  if  I  fail  to  exert  myself  in  the  manner  required, 
with  consequences  which  I  can  not  so  much  as  think  of 
without  perfect  prostration.  There  is  really  no  need  to 
threaten  me.  Shattered  by  my  miserable  health  and  my 
family  troubles,  I  am  incapable  of  resistance.  If  you  in- 
sist, you  take  your  unjust  advantage  of  me,  and  I  give  way 
immediately.  I  will  endeavor  to  remember  what  I  can 
(under  protest),  and  to  write  what  I  can  (also  under  pro- 
test); and  what  I  can't  remember  and  can't  write,  Louis 
must  remember,  and  write  for  me.  He  is  an  ass  and  I  am 
an  invalid,  and  we  are  likely  to  make  all  sorts  of  mistakes 
between  us.     How  humiliating! 

*  The  manner  in  which  Mr.  Fairlie's  Narrative,  and  other  Narra- 
tives that  are  shortly  to  follow  it,  were  originally  obtained,  forma 
the  subject  of  au  explanation  whicli  will  appear  at  a  later  period. 


THF,    WOMAN     IN    WHITE.  .'JS! 

I  am  told  to  remember  dates.  Good  ht-avens!  1  never 
did  such  a  thing  in  my  hfc — how  am  I  to  begin  now? 

I  have  aslied  Louis.  He  is  not  quite  such  an  ass  as  I 
have  hitherto  supposed.  He  remembers  the  date  of  the 
event,  within  a  week  or  two— and  I  remember  the  name  of 
the  person.  The  date  was  toward  the  end  of  June,  or  the 
beginning  of  July,  and  the  name  (in  my  opmion  a  remark- 
ably vulgar  one)  was  Fanny. 

At  the  end  of  June,  or  the  beginning  of  July,  then,  1 
was  reclining,  in  my  customary  state,  surrounded  by  the 
various  objects  of  Art  which  1  have  collected  about  me  to 
improve  the  taste  of  the  barbarous  people  in  my  neighbor- 
hood. That  is  to  say,  I  had  the  photographs  of  my  pict- 
ures, and  prints,  ajid  coins,  and  so  forth,  all  about  me, 
which  1  intend,  one  of  these  days,  to  present  (the  photo- 
graphs, I  mean,  if  the  clumsy  English  language  wdl  let 
me  mean  anything) — to  present  to  the  Institution  at  Car- 
lisle (horrid  place!)  with  a  view  to  improving  the  tastes  of 
the  Members  (Goths  and  Vandals  to  a  man).  It  might 
be  supposed  that  a  gentleman  who  was  in  course  of  confer- 
ring a  great  national  benefit  on  his  countrymen  was  the 
last  gentleman  in  the  world  to  be  unfeelingly  worried  about 
private  difficulties  and  family  affairs.  Quite  a  mistake,  1 
assure  you,  in  my  case. 

However,  there  I  was,  reclining,  with  my  art  treasures 
about  me,  and  wanting  a  quiet  morning.  Because  I  want- 
ed a  quiet  morning,  of  course  Louis  came  in.  It  was  per- 
fectly natural  that  1  should  inquire  what  the  deuce  he 
meant  by  making  his  appearance,  when  I  had  not  rung  my 
bell.  I  seldom  swear — it  is  such  an  ungentleman-like 
habit — but  when  Louis  answered  by  a  grin,  I  think  it  was 
also  perfectly  natural  thatl  should  damn  him  for  grinning. 
At  any  rate,  I  did. 

This  rigorous  mode  of  treatment,  1  have  observed,  in- 
variably brings  persons  in  the  lower  class  of  life  to  their 
senses.  It  brought  Louis  to  his  senses.  He  was  so  oblig- 
ing as  to  leave  off  grinning,  and  inform  me  that  a  Young 
Person  was  outside  wanting  to  see  me.  He  added  (with 
the  odious  talkativeness  of  servants)  that  her  name  was 
Fanny. 

"  Who  is  Fanny?" 

"  Lady  Glyde's  maid,  sir.*' 

*'  What  does  Lady  Clyde's  maid  want  with  me  f* 


332  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITEo 

'■  A  letter,  sir — '* 

"Take  it." 

"  She  refuses  to  give  it  to  anybody  but  you,  sir." 

"  Wlio  sends  the  letter?" 

'■■  Miss  Halcombe,  sir." 

The  moment  I  heard  Miss  Ilalcorabe's  name,  1  gave  up 
It  is  V.  habit  of  mine  always  to  give  up  to  Miss  Halcombe. 
1  find,  by  experience,  that  it  saves  noise.     1  gave  up  on 
this  occasion.     Dear  Marian! 

"  Let  Lady  Glyde's  maid  come  in,  Louis.  Stop!  Do 
!ier  shoes  creak?" 

1  was  obliged  to  ask  the  question.  Creaking  shoes  in- 
variably upset  me  for  the  day.  I  was  resigned  to  see  the 
"Young  Person,  but  I  was  n.ut  resigned  to  let  the  Young 
Person's  shoes  upset  me.  There  is  a  limit  even  to  my  en- 
durance. 

Louis  affirmed  distinctly  that  her  shoes  were  to  be  de- 
pended upon.  I  waved  my  hand.  He  introduced  her.  Is 
it  necessary  to  say  that  she  expressed  her  sense  of  embar- 
rassment by  shuttirjg  up  her  mouth  and  breathing  through 
her  nose?  To  the  sLudent  of  female  human  nature  in  tlib 
lower  orders,  surely  not. 

Let  me  do  the  girl  justice.  Her  shoes  did  nof  creak. 
But  why  do  Young  Persons  in  service  all  perspire  at  thn 
hands?  Why  have  they  all  got  fat  noses  and  hard  cheeks? 
And  why  are  their  faces  so  sadly  unfini.^hed,  especially 
about  the  corners  of  the  eyelids?  1  am  not  strong  enough 
to  think  deeply  myself  on  any  subject;  but  I  appeal  to 
professional  xnen  who  are.  Why  have  we  no  variety  in 
our  breed  of  Young  Persons? 

"  You  have  a  letter  for  me  from  Miss  Halcombe?  Put 
it  down  on  the  table,  please,  and  don't  upset  anything. 
How  is  Miss  Halcombe?" 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,  sir." 

"And  Lady  Glyde?" 

I  received  no  answer.  The  Young  Person's  face  became 
more  unfinished  t!:;v  '  cvpr,  and  I  think  she  began  to  cry. 
I  certainly  saw  siiut'ih  ng  moist  about  her  eyes.  Tears  or 
perspiration?  Louis  (ivhom  I  have  just  consulted)  is  in- 
clined to  think,  ttars.  He  is  in  her  class  of  life,  and  he 
ought  to  know  best.     Let  us  say,  tears. 

Except  when  the  refining  process  of  Art  judiciously  re- 
xuovea  from  them  all  resemblani*  to  Kature,  I  distinotij 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  333 

object  to  tears.  Tears  are  scientifically  described  as  a  Se- 
cretion. 1  can  understand  that  a  secretion  may  be  healthy 
or  unhealthy,  but  I  can  not  see  the  interest  of  a  secretion 
from  a  sentimental  point  of  view'.  Perhaps  my  own  secre- 
tions being  ail  wrong  together,  1  am  a  litile  prejudiced  ou 
the  subject.  No  matter.  I  behaved,  on  this  occasion, 
with  all  possible  propriety  and  feeling.  I  closed  my  eyes, 
and  said  to  Louis: 

"  Endeavor  to  ascertain  what  she  means. '^ 

Louis  endeavored,  and  the  Young  Person  endeavored. 
They  succeeded  in  confusing  each  other  to  such  an  extent 
that  I  am  bound  in  common  gratitude  to  say,  they  really 
amused  me.  I  think  I  shall  send  for  them  again,  when  I 
am  in  low  spirits.  I  have  just  mentioned  this  idea  to 
Louis.  Strange  to  say,  it  seems  to  make  him  uncomfort- 
able.    Poor  devil! 

Surely,  I  am  not  expected  to  repeat  my  niece's  maid's 
explanation  of  her  tears,  interpreted  in  the  English  of  my 
Swiss  valet?  The  thing  is  manifestly  impossible.  1  can 
give  my  own  impressions  and  feelings,  perhaps.  Will  that 
do  as  well?     Please  say.  Yes. 

My  idea  is  that  she  began  by  telling  me  (through  Louis) 
that  her  master  had  dismissed  her  from  her  mistress's  serv- 
ice. (Observe,  throughout,  the  strange  irrelevancy  of  the 
Youtig  Person.  Was  it  my  fault  that  she  had  lost  her 
place?)  On  her  dismissal,  she  had  gone  to  the  inn  to 
sleep.  //  don't  keep  the  inn — why  mention  it  to  jne  ?) 
Between  six  o'clock  and  seven.  Miss  Ilalcombe  had  come 
to  say  good-bye,  and  had  given  her  two  letters,  one  for  me, 
and  one  for  a  gentleman  in  London.  (1  am  not  a  gentle- 
man in  London — hang  the  gentleman  in  London!)  She  had 
carefully  put  the  two  letters  into  her  bosom  (what  have  I  to 
do  with  her  bosom?);  she  had  been  very  unhappy,  when  Miss 
Halcombe  had  gone  away  again;  she  had  not  had  the  heart 
to  put  bit  or  drop  between  her  lips  till  it  was  near  bed-time; 
and  then,  when  it  was  close  on  nine  o'clock,  she  had 
thought  she  should  like  a  cup  of  tea.  (Am  1  responsible 
for  any  of  these  vulgar  fluctuations,  which  begin  with  uji- 
happiness  and  end  with  tea?)  Just  as  she  was  warming 
the  pot  (I  give  the  words  on  the  authority  of  Louis,  who 
says  he  knows  what  they  mean,  and  wishes  to  explain,  but 
I  snub  him  on  principle) — just  as  she  was  warming  the 
pot,  the  door  opened,  and   she  was  struck  of  a  heap  (her 


331  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

owu  words  agaii^  aud  perfectly  unintelligible,  this  time,  to 
Louis,  as  well  as  to  myself)  by  the  appearance,  in  the  inn 
parlor,  of  her  ladyship,  the  Countess.  I  give  my  niece's 
maid's  description  of  my  sister's  title  with  a  sense  of  the 
highest  relish.  My  poor  dear  sister  is  a  tiresome  woman 
who  married  a  foreigner.  To  resume:  the  door  opened; 
ber  ladyship,  the  Countess,  appeared  in  the  parlor,  and  the 
young  Person  was  struck  of  a  heap.     Most  remarijable! 

I  must  really  rest  a  little  before  1  can  get  on  any  further. 
When  1  have  reclined  for  a  few  minutes,  with  my  eyes 
closed,  and  when  Louis  has  refreshed  my  poor  aching  tem= 
pies  with  a  little  eau-de-Cologne,  I  may  be  able  to  proceed. 

Her  ladyship,  the  Countess — 

No.     1  am  able  to  proceed,  but  not  to  sit  up.     I  will  re 
cline,  and  dictate.     Louis  has  a  horrid  accent;    but  he 
knows  the  language,  and  can  write.     How  very  conveni- 
ent! 

Her  ladyship,  the  Countess,  explained  her  unexpected 
appearance  at  the  iim  by  telling  Fanny  that  she  had  come 
to  bring  one  or  two  little  messages  which  Miss  Halcombe, 
in  her  hurry,  had  forgotten.  The  Young  Person  there- 
upon waited  anxiously  to  hear  what  the  messages  were; 
but  the  Countess  seemed  disinclined  to  mention  them  (so 
like  my  sister's  tiresome  way!)  until  Fanny  had  had  her 
tea.  Her  ladyship  was  surprisingly  kind  and  thoughtful 
about  it  (extremely  unlike  my  sister),  and  said,  "  I  am 
sure,  my  poor  girl,  you  must  want  your  tea.  We  can  let 
the  messages  wait  till  afterward.  Come,  come,  if  nothing 
else  will  put  you  at  your  ease,  I'll  make  the  tea,  and  have 
a  cup  with  you."  I  think  those  were  the  words,  as  report- 
ed excitably,  in  my  presence,  by  the  Young  Person.  At 
any  rate,  the  Countess  insisted  on  making  the  tea,  and 
carried  her  ridiculous  ostentation  of  humility  so  far  as  to 
take  one  cup  herself,  and  to  insist  on  the  girl's  taking  the 
other.  The  girl  drank  the  tea,  and,  according  to  her  own 
account,  solemnized  the  extraordinary  occasion,  five  min- 
utes afterward,  by  fainting  dead  away,  for  the  first  time  m 
her  life.  Here,  again.  1  use  her  own  words.  Louis  thinks 
they  were  accompanied  by  an  increased  secretion  of  tears. 
1  can't  say,  myself.  The  effort  of  listening  being  quite  as 
much  as  1  could  manage,  my  eyes  were  closed. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  335 

Where  did  I  leave  off?  Ah,  yes — she  fainted,  after 
drinking  a  cup  of  tea  with  the  Countess;  a  proceeding 
which  niiglit  have  interested  me,  if  I  had  been  her  medical 
man;  but,  being  nothing  of  the  sort,  1  felt  bored  by  hear- 
ing of  it,  nothing  more.  When  she  came  to  herself,  in 
half  an  hour's  time,  she  was  on  the  sofa,  and  nobody  was 
with  her  but  the  landlady.  The  Countess,  finding  it  too 
late  to  remain  any  longer  at  the  inn,  had  gone  away  as 
soon  as  the  girl  showed  signs  of  recovering,  and  the  land- 
lady had  been  good  enough  to  help  her  upstairs  to  bed. 

Left  by  herself,  she  had  felt  in  her  bosom  (1  regret  the 
necessity  of  referring  to  this  part  of  the  subject  a  second 
time),  and  had  found  the  two  letters  there,  quite  safe,  but 
strangely  crumpled.  She  had  been  giddy  in  the  night; 
but  had  got  up  well  enough  to  travel  in  the  morning.  She 
had  put  the  letter  addressed  to  that  obtrusive  stranger,  the 
gentleman  in  London,  into  the  post,  and  had  now  delivered 
the  other  letter  into  my  hands,  as  she  was  told.  This  was 
the  plain  truth;  and,  though  she  could  not  blame  herself 
lor  any  intentional  neglect,  she  was  sadly  troubled  in  her 
mind,  and  sadly  in  want  of  a  word  of  advice.  At  this 
point  Louis  thinks  the  secretions  appeared  again.  Perhaps 
they  did;  but  it  is  of  infinitely  greater  importance  to  men- 
tion that,  at  this  point  also,  1  lost  my  patience,  opened  my 
eyes,  and  interfered. 

"  What  is  the  purport  of  all  this?"  I  inquired. 

My  niece's  irrelevant  maid  stared,  and  stood  speechless. 

*'  Endeavor  to  explain,"  I  said  to  my  servant.  "  Trans- 
late me,  Louis." 

Louis  endeavored,  and  translated.  In  other  words,  he 
descended  immediately  into  a  bottomless  pit  of  confusion; 
and  the  Young  Person  followed  him  down.  1  really  don't 
know  when  1  have  been  so  amused.  I  left  them  at  the 
bottom  of  the  pit,  as  long  as  they  diverted  me.  "When 
they  ceased  to  divert  me,  I  exerted  my  intelligence,  and 
pulled  them  up  again. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  my  interference  enabled  me, 
in  due  course  of  time,  to  ascertain  the  purport  of  the 
Young  Person's  remarks. 

I  discovered  that  she  was  uneasy  in  her  mind,  because 
the  train  of  events  that  she  had  just  described  to  me  had 
prevented  her  from  receiving  those  supplementary  nies- 
eages  which  Miss  Halcombe  had  intrusted  to  the  Countess 


336  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

to  deliver.  She  was  afraid  the  messages  might  have  been 
of  great  importance  to  her  mistress's  interests.  Her  dread 
of  Sir  Percival  had  deterred  her  from  going  to  Blackwater 
Park  late  at  night  to  inquire  about  them,  and  Miss  Hal- 
combe's  own  directions  to  her,  on  bo  account  to  miss  the 
train  in  the  morning,  had  prevented  her  from  waiting  at 
the  inn  the  next  day.  She  was  most  anxious  that  the  mis- 
fortune of  her  fainting-fit  should  not  lead  to  the  second 
misfortune  of  making  her  mistress  think  her  neglectful, 
and  she  would  humbly  beg  to  ask  me  whether  I  would  ad- 
vise her  to  write  her  explanations  and  excuses  to  Miss  Hal- 
combe,  requesting  to  receive  the  messages  by  letter,  if  it 
was  not  too  late.  I  make  no  apologies  fcr  this  extremely 
prosy  paragraph.  I  have  been  ordered  to  write  it.  There 
are  people,  unaccountable  as  it  may  appear,  who  actually 
take  more  interest  in  what  my  niece's  maid  said  to  me  on 
this  occasion  than  in  what  I  said  to  my  niece's  maid. 
Amusing  perversity! 

"  I  should  feel  very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,  if  you 
would  kindly  tell  me  what  I  had  better  do,"  remarked  the 
Young  Person. 

"  Let  things  stop  as  they  are,"  1  said,  adapting  my  lan- 
guage to  my  listener.  "  1  invariably  let  things  stop  as 
they  are.     Yes.     Is  that  all?" 

"  If  you  think  it  would  be  a  liberty  in  me,  sir,  to  write, 
of  course  1  wouldn't  venture  to  do  so.  But  I  am  so  very 
anxious  to  do  all  I  can  to  serve  my  mistress  faithfully — " 

People  in  the  lower  class  of  life  never  know  when  or 
how  to  go  out  of  a  room.  They  invariably  require  to  be 
helped  out  by  their  betters.  I  thought  it  high  time  to  help 
the  Young  Person  out.     I  did  it  with  two  judicious  words: 

"  Good-morning!" 

Something,  outside  or  inside  this  singular  girl,  suddenly 
creaked.  Louis,  who  was  looking  at  her  (which  I  was 
not),  says  she  creaked  when  she  courtesied.  Curious. 
Was  it  her  shoes,  her  stays,  or  her  bones?  Louis  thinks 
it  was  her  stays.     Most  extraordinary! 

As  soon  as  I  was  left  by  myself,  1  had  a  little  nap — I 
really  wanted  it.  When  I  awoke  again,  1  noticed  dear 
Marian's  letter.  If  I  had  had  the  least  idea  of  what  it  con- 
tained, I  should  certainly  not  have  attempted  to  open  it. 
Being,  unfortunately  for  myself,  quite  innocent  of  all  su§- 


THK     WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  337 

picioi),  I  read  the  letter.  It  immediately  upset  me  for  the 
dav. 

1  am  by  nature  one  of  the  most  easy-tempered  creatures 
that  ever  lived— I  miike  allowances  for  everybody,  and  I 
take  offense  at  nothing.  But,  as  I  have  before  remarked, 
there  are  limits  to  my  endurance.  1  laid  down  Marian's 
letter,  and  felt  myself — justly  felt  myself — an  injured  man. 

1  am  about  to  make  a  remark.  It  is,  of  course,  applica- 
ble to  the  very  serious  matter  now  under  notice,  or  I  should 
not  allow  it  to  appear  in  this  place. 

Nothing,  in  my  opinion,  sets  the  odious  selfishness  of 
'  mankind  in  such  a  repulaivelv  vivid  light  as  the  treatment, 
in  all  classes  of  soeic'ty,  which  the  Single  people  receive  at 
the  hands  of  the  Married  people.  When  you  have  once 
shown  yourself  too  considerate  and  self-denying  to  add  a 
family  of  your  own  to  an  already  overcrowded  population, 
you  are  vindictively  marked  out  by  your  married  friends, 
who  have  no  similar  consideration  and  no  similar  self- 
denial,  as  the  recipient  of  half  their  conjugal  troubles,  and 
the  born  friend  of  all  their  children.  Husbands  and  wives 
talk  of  the  cares  of  matrimony,  and  bachelors  and  spinsters 
hear  them.  Take  my  own  case.  I  considerately  remain 
single,  and  my  poor  dear  brother,  Philip,  inconsiderately 
marries.  What  does  he  do  when  he  dies?  He  leaves  his 
daughter  to  me.  She  is  a  sweet  girl.  She  is  also  a  dread- 
ful responsibility.  Why  lay  her  on  my  shoulders?  Be- 
cause I  am  bound,  in  the  harmless  character  of  a  single 
man,  to  relieve  my  married  connections  of  all  their  own 
troubles.  I  do  my  best  with  my  brother's  resf)onsibility; 
I  marry  my  niece,  with  infinite  fuss  and  difficulty,  to  the 
man  her  father  wanted  her  to  marry.  She  and  her  hus- 
band disagree,  and  unpleasant  consequences  follow.  What 
does  she  do  with  those  consequences?  She  transfers  them 
to  me.  Why  transfer  them  to  me  ?  Because  I  am  bound, 
in  the  harmless  character  of  a  single  man,  to  relieve  my 
married  connections  of  all  their  own  troubles.  Poor  single 
people!     Poor  human  nature! 

It  is  quite  unnecessary  to  say  that  Marian's  letter  threat- 
ened me.  Everybody  threatens  me.  All  sorts  of  horrors 
were  to  fall  on  my  devoted  head,  if  I  hesitated  to  turn 
Limmeriflge  House  into  an  asylum  for  my  niece  and  lier 
misfortunes.     I  did  hesitate,  nevertheless. 

1  have  mentioned  that  my  usual  course,  hitherto,  had 


338  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITF. 

been  to  submit  to  dear  Marian,  and  save  noise.  Bat,  oa 
this  occasion,  the  consequences  involved  in  her  extremely 
inconsiderate  proposal  were  of  a  nature  to  make  me  pause. 
If  I  opened  Limnieridge  House  as  an  asylum  to  Lady 
Glyde,  what  security  had  I  against  Sir  Percival  Glyde's 
following  her  here,  in  a  state  of  violent  resentment  against 
7ne  for  harboring  his  wife?  I  saw  such  a  perfect  labyrinth 
of  troubles  involved  in  this  proceeding,  that  I  determined 
;o  feel  my  ground,  as  it  were.  1  wrote,  therefore,  to  dear 
Marian,  to  beg  (as  she  had  no  husband  to  lay  claim  to  her) 
that  she  would  come  here  by  herself,  first,  and  talk  the 
matter  over  with  me.  If  she  could  answer  my  objections 
to  my  own  perfect  satisfaction,  then  I  assured  her  that  I 
would  receive  our  sweet  Laura  with  the  greatest  pleasure- 
but  not  otherwise. 

I  felt  of  course,  at  the  time,  that  this  temporizing  on  my 
part  would  probably  end  in  bringing  Marian  here  in  a  state 
of  virtuous  indignation,  banging  doors.  But,  then,  the 
other  course  of  proceeding  might  end  in  bringing  Sir  Per- 
cival here  in  a  state  of  virtuous  indignation,  banging  doorc 
also;  and,  of  the  two  indignations  and  hangings,  I  pre- 
ferred Marian's — because  I  was  used  to  her.  Accordingly, 
I  dispatched  the  letter  by  return  of  post.  It  gained  m& 
time,  at  all  events — and,  oh,  dear  me  I  what  a  point  that 
was  to  begin  with. 

When  1  am  totally  prostrated  (did  I  mention  that  I  was 
totally  prostrated  by  Marian's  letter?),  it  always  takes  me 
three  days  to  get  up  again.  I  was  very  unreasonable — I 
expected  three  days  of  quiet.     Of  course  I  didn't  get  them. 

The  third  day's  post  brought  me  a  most  impertinent  let- 
ter from  a  person  with  whom  I  was  totally  unacquainted. 
He  described  himself  as  the  acting  partner  of  our  man  of 
business —our  dear,  pig-headed  old  Gilraore — and  he  in 
formed  me  that  he  had  lately  received,  by  the  post,  a  letter 
addressed  to  him  in  Miss  Halcombe's  handwriting.  On 
opening  the  envelope  he  had  discovered,  to  his  astonish- 
ment, that  it  contained  nothing  but  a  blank  sheet  of  note- 
paper.  This  circumstance  appeared  to  him  so  suspicious 
(as  suggesting  to  his  restless  legal  mind  that  the  letter  had 
been  tampered  with)  that  he  had  at  o;ice  wirtten  to  Miss 
Halcombi!,  and  had  received  no  answer  by  return  of  po:-t. 
In  this  difhculty,  instead  of  acting  like  a  sensible  man  and 
letting  things  take  their  proper  course,  his  next  absurd 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  339 

proceeding,  on  his  own  sliowing,  was  to  pester  me,  by  writ- 
ing to  inquire  if  1  knew  anything  about  it.  What  the 
deuce  should  1  know  about  it?  Wliy  alarm  me  as  well  as 
himself.'^  I  wrote  baok  to  that  effect.  It  was  one  of  my 
keenest  letters.  1  have  produced  nothing  with  a  sharper 
epistolary  edge  to  it,  since  I  tendered  his  dismissal  in  writ- 
ing to  that  extremely  troublesome  person,  Mr.  Walter  Hart- 
'ight. 

My  letter  produced  its  effect.  I  heard  nothing  more 
from  the  lawyer. 

This,  perhaps,  was  not  altogether  surprising.  But  it 
was  certainly  a  remarkable  circumstance  that  no  second 
better  reached  me  from  Marian,  and  that  no  warning  signs 
appeared  of  her  arrival.  Her  unexpected  absence  did  me 
amazing  good.  It  was  so  very  soothing  and  pleasant  to 
infer  (as  1  did,  of  course)  that  my  married  connections  had 
made  it  up  again.  Five  days  of  undisturbed  tranquillity, 
of  delicious  single  blessedness,  quite  restored  me.  On  the 
sixth  day  1  felt  strong  enough  to  send  for  my  photographer, 
and  to  set  him  at  work  again  on  the  presentation  copies  of 
my  art  treasures,  with  a  view,  as  I  have  already  mentioned, 
to  the  improvement  of  taste  in  this  barbarous  neighbor- 
hood. 1  had  just  dismissed  him  to  his  work-shop,  and  had 
just  begun  coquetting  with  my  coins,  when  Louis  suddenly 
made  his  appearance  with  a  card  in  his  hand. 

"  Another  Young  Person?"  1  said.  "  1  won't  see  her. 
In  my  state  of  health.  Young  Persons  disagree  with  me. 
Not  at  home." 

"  It  is  a  gentleman  this  time,  sir.'* 

A  gentleman,  of  course,  made  a  difference.  1  looked  at 
bhe  card. 

Gracious  Heaven  1  my  tiresome  sister's  foreign  husband. 
Count  Fosco. 

Is  it  necessary  to  say  what  my  first  impression  was,  when 
I  looked  at  my  visitor's  card?  Surely  not?  My  sister  hav- 
ing married  a  foreigner,  there  was  but  one  impression  that 
any  man  in  his  senses  could  possibly  feel.  Of  course  the 
Count  had  come  to  borrow  money  of  me. 

"Louis,"  I  said,  "do  you  think  he  would  go  away  if 
you  gave  him  five  shillings?" 

Louis  looked  quite  shocked.  He  surprised  me  inexpres- 
sibly by  declaring  that  my  sister's  foieign   husband   was 


340  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

dressed  superbly,  and  looked  the  picture  of  prosperity. 
Under  these  circumstances,  my  first  impression  altered  to 
a  certain  extent.  I  now  took  it  for  granted  that  the  Connt 
had  matrimonial  difficulties  of  his  own  to  contend  with, 
and  that  he  had  come,  like  the  rest  of  the  family,  to  cast 
♦^^hem  all  on  my  shoulders.      ' 

"  Did  he  mention  his  business?"  I  asked. 

"  Count  Fosco  said  he  had  come  here,  sir,  because  Miss 
Halcombe  was  unable  to  leave  Bhtck water  Park." 

Fresh  troubles,  apparently.  Not  exactly  his  own,  as  I 
had  supposed,  but  dear  Marian's.  Troubles,  any  way. 
Oh,  dear! 

"  Show  him  in,"  I  said,  resignedly. 

The  Count's  first  appearance  really  startled  me.  He 
was  such  an  alarmingly  large  person  that  I  quite  trembled. 
1  felt  certain  tliat  he  would  shake  the  floor,  and  knock 
down  my  art  treasures.  He  did  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  He  was  refreshingly  dressed  in  summer  costume; 
his  manner  was  delightfully  self-possessed  and  quiet — he 
had  a  charming  smile.  My  first  impression  of  him  was 
highly  favorable.  It  is  not  creditable  to  my  penetration — 
as  the  sequel  will  show — to  acknowledge  this;  but  I  am  a 
naturally  candid  man,  and  I  do  acknowledge  it,  notwith- 
standing. 

"  Allow  me  to  present  myself,  Mr.  Fairlie,"  he  said. 
"  I  come  from  Blackwater  Park,  and  1  have  the  honor  and 
the  happiness  of  being  Ma'lanie  Fosco's  husband.  Let  me 
take  my  first,  and  last,  advantage  of  that  circumstance  by 
entreating  you  not  to  make  a  stranger  of  me.  I  beg  you 
will  not  disturb  yourself — I  beg  you  will  not  move." 

"  You  are  very  good,"  I  replied.  "  I  wish  I  was  strong 
enough  to  get  up.  Charmed  to  see  you  at  Limmeridge. 
Please  take  a  chair." 

"  1  am  afraid  you  are  suffering  to-day,"  said  the  Count. 
*'  As  usual,"  I  said.  "  I  am  nothing  but  a  bundle  of 
nerves  dressed  up  to  look  like  a  man." 

"  I  have  studied  many  subjects  in  my  time,  *  remarked 
this  sympathetic  person.  "  Among  others,  the  inexhausti- 
ble subject  of  nerves.  May  1  make  a  suggestion,  at  once 
the  simplest  and  the  most  profound?  Will  you  let  me  aJter 
the  light  in  your  room?" 

"  Certainly — if  you  will  be  so  very  kind  as  not  to  let  aii.^ 
of  it  in  on  me." 


THE     WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  341 

He  walked  to  the  window.  Such  a  contrast  to  dear 
Mirian!  so  extremely  considerate  in  all  his  movements! 

"  Light,"  he  said,  in  that  delightfully  confidential  tone 
which  is  so  soothing  to  an  invalid,  "  is  the  first  essential. 
Light  stimulates,  nourishes,  preserves.  You  can  no  more 
do  without  it,  Mr.  Fairlie,  than  if  you  were  a  flower.  Ob- 
serve. Here,  where  you  sit,  I  close  the  shutters,  to  con>« 
pose  you.  There,  where  you  do  not  sit,  1  draw  up  the 
blind  and  let  in  the  invigorating  sun.  Admit  the  ligiit 
into  your  room,  if  you  can  not  bep'*  it  on  yourself.  Light, 
sir,  is  the  grand  decree  of  Providence.  You  accept  Provi- 
dence with  your  own  restrictions.  Accept  light — on  the 
same  terms." 

I  thought  this  very  convincing  and  attentive.  He  had 
taken  men  in — up  to  that  point  about  the  light,  he  had 
certainly  taken  me  in. 

"  You  see  me  confused,"  he  said,  returning  to  his  place 
— "  on  my  word  of  honor,  Mr.  Fairlie,  you  see  me  confused 
in  your  presence." 

"  Shocked  to  hear  it,  I  am  sure.     May  I  inquire  why?" 

"  Sir,  can  1  enter  this  room  (where  you  sit  a  sufferer), 
and  see  you  surrounded  by  these  admirable  objects  of  Art, 
without  discovering  that  you  are  a  man  whose  feelings  are 
acutely  impressionable,  whose  sympathies  are  perpetually 
alive?     Tell  me,  can  I  do  this?" 

If  I  had  been  strong  enough  to  sit  up  in  my  chair,  1 
should,  of  course,  have  bowed.  Not  being  strong  enough, 
1  smiled  my  acknowledgments  instead.  It  did  just  as  well 
— we  both  understood  each  other. 

"  Pray  follow  my  train  of  thought,"  continued  the 
Count.  "  1  sit  here,  a  man  of  refined  sympathies  myself, 
in  the  presence  of  another  man  of  refined  sympathies  also. 
I  am  conscious  of  a  terrible  necsssity  for  lacerating  those 
sympathies  by  referring  to  domestic  events  of  a  very  meL 
ancholy  kind.  What  is  the  inevitable  consequence?  I 
have  done  myself  the  honor  of  pointing  it  out  to  you 
already.     1  sit  confused." 

Was  it  at  this  point  that  I  began  to  suspect  he  was  going 
to  bore  me?     I  rather  think  it  was. 

"is  it  absolutely  necessary  to  refer  to  these  unpleasant 
ma'.ters?"  I  inquired.  "  In  ouf  homely  English  phrase^ 
Couat  FosGO,  wou't  they  keep?" 


342  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

The  Count,  with  the  most  alarming  solemnity,  sighed 
and  shook  his  head. 

"  Must  1  really  hear  them?" 

He  shrugged  his  slioulders  (it  was  the  first  foreign  thing 
he  had  done  since  he  had  been  in  the  room),  and  looked  at 
me  in  an  unpleasantly  penetrating  manner.  My  instincts 
told  me  that  1  had  better  close  my  eyes.  1  obeyed  my  in- 
stincts. 

"  Please  break  it  gently,"  I  pleaded.  "  Anybody 
dead?" 

"  Dead!"  cried  the  Count,  with  unnecessary  foreign 
fierceness.  "  Mr.  Fairlie!  your  national  composure  terri- 
fies me.  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  what  have  I  said  or 
done  to  make  you  think  me  the  messenger  of  death?" 

*'  Pray  accept  my  apologies,"  1  answered.  "  You  have 
said  and  done  nothing.  1  make  it  a  rule,  in  these  distress- 
ing cases,  always  to  anticipate  the  worst.  Jt  breaks  th^ 
blow,  by  meeting  it  half-way,  and  so  on.  Inexpressibly 
relieved,  1  am  sure,  to  hear  that  nobody  is  dead.  Any- 
body ill?" 

1  opened  my  eyes,  and  looked  at  him.  Was  he  very 
yellow  when  he  came  in?  or  had  he  turned  very  yellow  in 
the  last  minute  or  two?  I  really  can't  say;  and  I  can't 
ask  Louis,  because  he  was  not  in  the  room  at  the  time. 

*'  Anybody  ill?"  I  repeated,  observing  that  my  national 
composure  still  appeared  to  affect  him. 

"That  is  part  of  my  bad  news,  Mr.  Fairlie.  Yes. 
Somebody  is  ill." 

"  Grieved,  1  am  sure.     Which  of  them  is  it?" 

"  To  my  profound  sorrow,  Miss  Halcomoe.  Perhaps 
you  were  in  some  degree  prepared  to  hear  this?  Perhaps, 
when  you  found  that  Miss  Elalcombe  did  not  come  here  by 
herself,  as  you  proposed,  and  did  ]iot  write  a  second  time, 
your  affectionate  anxiety  may  have  made  you  fear  that  she 
was  ill?" 

I  have  no  doubt  my  affectionate  anxiety  hud  led  to  tliat 
melancholy  apprehension  at  some  time  or  other,  but  at  the 
moment  my  wretched  memory  entirely  failed  to  remind  me 
of  the  circumstance.  However,  I  said  Yes,  in  justice  tc 
myself.  1  was  much  shocked.  It  was  so  very  uncnar- 
acteristic  of  such  a  robust  person  as  dear  Marian  to  be  ill, 
that  I  could  only  suppose  she  had  met  with  an  accident. 


THE    WOMAIT    IN    WHITE.  843 

A  horse,  or  a  false  step  on  the  stairS;  or  something  of  that 
sort. 

"  Is  it  serious?"  I  asked. 

"  Serious — beyond  a  doubt,"  he  replied.  "  Dangerous 
— I  hope  and  trust  not.  Miss  Halcombe  unhappily  ex- 
posed herself  to  be  wetted  through  by  a  heavy  rain.  The 
cold  that  followed  was  of  an  aggravated  kind,  and  it  has 
now  brought  with  it  the  worst  consequence — Fever." 

When  1  heard  the  word  Fever,  and  when  1  remembered^ 
at  the  same  moment,  that  the  unscrupulous  person,  who 
was  now  addressing  me  had  just  come  from  Blackwater 
Park,  1  thought  1  should  have  fainted  on  the  spot. 

"  Good  God!"  I  said.     "  Is  it  infectious?" 

**  Not  at  present,"  he  answered,  with  detestable  com- 
posure. "  It  may  turn  to  infection — but  no  such  deplora- 
ble complication  had  taken  place  when  I  left  Blackwater 
Park.  I  have  felt  the  deepest  interest  in  the  case,  Mr. 
Fairlie — 1  have  endeavored  "to  assist  the  regular  medical 
attendant  in  watching  it — accept  my  personal  assurances 
of  the  uninfectious  nature  of  the  fever  when  I  last  saw  it." 

Accept  his  assurances!  1  never  was  further  from  ac- 
cepting anything  in  my  life.  I  would  not  have  believed 
him  on  his  oath.  He  was  too  yellow  to  be  believed.  He 
looked  like  a  walking  West  Indian  epidemic.  He  was  big 
enough  to  carry  typhus  by  the  ton,  and  to  dye  the  very 
carpet  he  walked  on  with  scarlet  fever.  In  certain  emer- 
gencies my  mind  is  remarkably  soon  made  up.  I  instantly 
determined  to  get  rid  of  him. 

"  You  will  kindly  excuse  an  invalid,"  I  said — "  but  long 
conferences  of  any  kind  invariably  upset  me.  May  1  beg 
to  know  exactly  what  the  object  is  to  which  I  am  indebted 
for  the  honor  of  your  visit?" 

I  fervently  hoped  that  this  remarkably  broad  hint  would 
throw  him  off  his  balance — confuse  him — reduce  him  to 
polite  apologies — in  short,  get  him  out  of  the  room.  On 
the  contrary,  it  only  settled  him  in  his  chair.  He  became 
additionally  solemn  and  dignified  and  confidential.  He 
held  up  two  of  his  horrid  fingers,  and  gave  me  another  of 
his  unpleasantly  penetrating  looks.  What  was  I  to  do?  I 
was  not  strong  enough  to  quarrel  with  him.  Conceive  my 
situation,  if  you  please.  Is  language  adequate  to  desciibe 
it?     1  think  not. 

**  The  objects  of  my  visit,"  he  went  on,  quite  irre^jressi- 


.3i4  THE    WOMAK    IK    WHITE. 

lly,  "  are  numbered  on  my  fingers.  They  are  two.  First, 
I  come  to  bear  my  testimony,  with  profound  sorrow,  to  the 
lamentable  disagreements  between  Sir  Percival  and  Lady 
Giyde.  I  am  Sir  Percival's  oldest  friend;  I  am  relatsd  to 
Lady  Glyde  by  marriage;  I  am  an  eye-witness  of  all  that 
has  happened  at  Blackwater  Park.  In  those  three  capaci- 
ties I  speak  with  authority,  with  confidence,  with  honora- 
ble regret.  Sir,  1  inform  you,  as  the  head  of  Lady  Glyde's 
family,  that  Miss  Halcombe  has  exaggerated  nothii]g  in  the 
letter  which  she  wrote  to  your  address.  I  affirm  that  the 
remedy  which  that  admirable  lady  has  proposed  is  the  only 
remedy  that  will  spare  you  the  horrors  of  public  scandal. 
A  temporary  separation  between  husband  and  wife  is  the 
one  peaceable  solution  of  this  difficulty.  Part  them  for 
the  present;  and  when  all  causes  of  irritation  are  removed, 
I,  who  have  now  the  honor  of  addressing  you — I  will  under- 
take to  bring  Sir  Percival  to  reason.  Lady  Glyde  is  inno- 
cent, Lady  Glyde  is  injured;  -but — follow  my  thought  here 
— she  is,  on  that  very  account  (I  say  it  with  shame),  the 
cause  of  irritation  while  she  remains  under  her  husband's 
roof.  No  other  house  can  receive  her  with  propriety  but 
yours.     1  invite  you  to  open  it!" 

Cool.  Here  is  a  matrimonial  hail-storm  pouring  in  the 
South  of  England;  and  I  was  invited,  by  a  man  with  fever 
in  every  fold  of  his  coat,  to  come  out  from  the  North  of 
England  and  take  my  share  of  the  pelting.  I  tried  to  put 
the  point  forcibly,  just  as  I  have  put  it  here.  The  Count 
deliberately  lowered  one  of  his  horrid  fingers;  kept  the 
other  up;  and  went  on — rode  over  me,  as  it  were,  without 
even  the  common  coachman-like  attention  of  crying  "  Hi!" 
before  he  knocked  me  down. 

"  Follow  my  thought  once  more,  if  you  please,"  he  re- 
sumed. "  My  first  object  you  have  heard.  My  second 
object  in  coming  to  this  house  is  to  do  what  Miss  Halcombe's 
illiiess  has  prevented  her  from  doing  for  herself.  My  large 
experience  is  consulted  on  all  difficult  matters  at  Black- 
water  Park,  and  my  friendly  advice  was  requested  on  the  in- 
teresting subject  of  your  letter  to  Miss  Halcombe.  1  under- 
vtood  at  once — for  my  sympathies  are  your  sympathies — 
why  you  wished  to  see  her  here,  before  you  pledged  yourself 
;o  invite  Lady  Glyde.  You  are  most  right,  sir,  in  hesitat- 
I  .o-  to  receive  the  wife  until  you  are  quite  certain  that  the 
■iiaband  will  not  exert  his  authority  to  reclaim  her.    J  agree 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  345 

to  that.  1  also  agree  that  such  delicate  explanations  as 
this  ditiiculty  involves  are  not  explanations  which  can  be 
properly  disposed  of  by  writing  only.  My  presence  here 
(to  my  own  great  inconvenience)  is  the  proof  that  I  speak 
sincerely.  As  for  the  explanations  themselves,  1 — Fosoo — 
1  who  know  Sir  Percival  much  better  than  Miss  Halcombe 
knows  him,  affirm  to  you,  on  my  honor  and  my  word,  that 
he  will  not  come  near  this  house,  or  attempt  to  communi- 
cate with  this  house,  while  his  wife  is  living  in  it.  His 
ati'airs  are  embarrassed.  Offer  him  his  freedom,  by  means 
of  the  absence  of  Lady  Glyde.  I  promise  you  he  will  take 
his  freedom  and  go  back  to  the  Continent,  at  the  earli- 
est moment  when  he  can  get  away.  Is  this  as  clear  to 
you  as  crystal?  Yes,  it  is.  Have  you  questions  to 
address  me?  Be  it  so;  I  am  here  to  answer.  Ask,  Mr. 
Fairlie — oblige  me  by  asking,  to  your  heart's  content." 

He  had  said  so  much  ah-eady  in  spite  of  me,  and  he  looked 
so  dreadfully  capable  of  saying  a  great  deal  more,  also  in 
spite  of  me,  that  I  declined  his  amiable  invitation,  in  pure 
self-defense. 

"  Many  thanks,"  I  replied.  "  T  am  sinking  fast.  In  my 
state  of  health,  I  must  take  things  for  granted.  Allow  me 
to  do  so  on  this  occasion.  We  quite  understand  each  other. 
Yes.  Much  obliged,  I  am  sure,  for  your  kind  interference. 
If  I  ever  get  better,  and  ever  have  a  second  opportunity  of 
improving  our  acquaintance — " 

He  got  up.  I  thought  he  was  going.  No.  More  talk; 
more  time  for  the  development  of  infectious  influences — iu 
■))iy  room,  too;  remember  that,  in  my  room! 

"  One  moment,  yet,"  he  said;  "  one  moment,  before  1 
take  my  leave.  I  ask  permission,  at  parting,  to  impress 
on  you  an  urgent  necessity.  It  is  this,  sir!  You  must  not 
think  of  waiting  until  Miss  Halcombe  recovers,  before  you 
receive  Lady  Glyde.  Miss  Halcombe  has  the  attendance 
of  the  doctor,  of  the  housekeeper  at  Black  water  Park,  and 
of  an  experienced  nurse  as  well — three  persons  for  whose 
capacity  and  devotion  I  answer  with  my  life.  1  tell  you 
that.  1  tell  you,  also,  that  the  anxiety  and  alarm  of  her 
sister's  illness  had  already  affected  the  health  and  spirits  of 
Lady  Glyde,  and  has  made  her  totally  unfit  to  be  of  use  in 
the  sick-room.  Her  position  with  her  husband  grows  more 
and  more  deplorable  aiid  dangerous  every  day.  If  you 
luave  her  any  longer  at  Blackwater  Park,  you  do  nothing 


34r>  THE    WOMAK    IN"    WHITE. 

whatever  to  hasten  her  sister's  recovery,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  you  risk  the  public  scandal,  which  you,  and  I,  and 
all  of  us,  are  bound,  in  the  sacred  interests  of  the  Family, 
to  avoid.  With  all  my  soul,  1  advise  you  to  remove  the 
serious  responsibility  of  delay  from  your  own  shoulders, 
by  writing  to  Lady  Grlyde  to  come  here  at  once.  Do  your 
affectionate,  your  honorable,  your  inevitable  duty;  and, 
whatever  happens  in  the  future,  no  one  can  lay  the  blame 
on  "jdu.  I  speak,  from  my  large  experience;  I  offer  my  friend- 
ly advice.     Is  it  accepted— Yes,  or  No?" 

1  looked  at  him — merely  looked  a",  him — with  my  sense 
of  his  amazing  assurance,  and  my  dawning  resolution  to 
ring  fur  Louis,  and  have  him  shown  out  of  the  room,  ex- 
pressed in  every  line  of  my  face.  It  is  perfectly  incredible, 
but  quite  true,  that  my  face  did  not  appear  to  produce  the 
slightest  impression  on  him.  Born  without  nerves — evi- 
dently, born  without  nerves! 

"  You  hesitate?"  he  said.  "Mr.  Fairlie!  I  understand 
that  hesitation.  You  object — see,  sir,  how  my  sympathies 
look  straight  down  into  your  thoughts! — you  object  that 
Lady  Glyde  is  not  in  health  and  not  in  spirits  to  take  tho 
long  journey,  from  Hampshire  to  this  place,  by  herself.  Her 
own  maid  is  removed  from  her,  as  you  know;  and,  of 
other  servants  fit  to  travel  with  her,  from  one  end  of  Eng- 
land to  another,  there  are  none  at  Blackwater  Park.  You 
object,  again,  that  she  can  not  comfortably  stop  and  rest 
in  London,  on  her  way  here,  because  she  can  not  comforta- 
bly go  alone  to  a  public  hotel  where  she  is  a  total  stranger. 
In  one  breath,  I  grant  both  objections — in  another  breath, 
I  remove  them.  Follow  me,  if  you  please,  for  the  last 
time.  It  was  my  intention,  when  I  returned  to  England 
with  Sir  Percival,  to  settle  myself  in  the  neighborhood  of 
London.  That  purpose  has  j  ust  been  happily  accomplished. 
1  have  taken,  for  six  months,  a  little  furnished  house  in  the 
qnarter  called  St.  John's  Wood.  Be  so  obliging  as  to 
keep  this  fact  in  your  mind,  and  observe  the  programme  1 
now  propose.  Lady  Glyde  travels  to  London  (a  short 
journey)  —  !  myself  meet  her  at  the  station — 1  take  her  to 
rest  and  sleep  at  my  house,  which  is  also  the  house  of  her 
aunt — when  she  is  restored,  1  escort  her  to  the  station  again 
— she  travels  to  thib  place,  and  her  own  maid  (who  is  now 
under  your  roof)  receives  her  at  the  carriage  doo;-. 
Here  is  comfort  consulted;  here  are  the  interests  of  proprj- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  34? 

ety  3onsulted;  here  is  your  own  duty — duty  of  hospitality, 
sympathy,  protection,  to  an  unhappy  lady  in  need  of  all 
three — smoothed  and  made  easy,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end.  I  cordially  invite  you,  sir,  to  second  my  efforts  in 
the  sacred  interests  of  the  Family.  I  seriously  advise  you 
fco  write,  by  my  hands,  offering  the  hospitality  of  your 
house  (and  heart),  and  the  hospitality  of  my  house  (and 
leart),  to  that  injured  and  unfortunate  lady  whose  cause  I 
oleai]  to-day." 

He  waved  his  horrid  hand  at  me;  and  struck  his  infec- 
tious breast;  he  addressed  me  oratorically — as  if  I  was  laid 
up  in  the  House  of  Commons.  It  was  high  time  to  take 
a  desperate  course  of  some  sort.  It  was  also  high  time  to 
send  for  Lo-uis,  and  adopt  the  precaution  of  fumigating  the 
room. 

In  this  trying  emergency  an  idea  occurred  to  me — an  in- 
estimable idea  which,  so  to  speal\,  killed  two  intrusive  birds 
with  one  stone.  I  determined  to  get  rid  of  the  Count's 
tiresome  eloquence,  and  of  Lady  Glyde's  tiresome  troubles, 
by  complying  with  this  odious  foreigner's  request,  and 
writing  the  letter  at  once.  There  was  not  the  least  danger 
of  the  invitation  being  accepted,  for  there  was  not  the  least 
chance  that  Laura  would  consent  to  leave  Blackwater  Park 
while  Marian  was  lying  there  ill.  How  this  charmingly 
convenient  obstacle  could  have  escaped  the  officious  penetra- 
tion of  the  Count  was  impossible  to  conceive — but  it  had 
escaped  him.  My  dread  that  he  might  yet  discover  it,  if  I 
allowed  him  any  more  time  to  think,  stimulated  me  to  such 
an  amazing  degree,  that  I  struggled  into  a  sitting  position; 
seized,  really  seized,  the  writing  materials  by  my  side;  and 
produced  the  letter  as  rapidly  as  if  1  had  been  a  common 
clerk  in  an  office.  "  Dearest  Laura — Please  come,  when- 
ever you  like.  Break  the  journey  by  sleeping  in  London 
at  your  aunt's  house.  Grieved  to  hear  of  dear  Maiian's 
illness.  Ever  affectionately  yours."  I  handed  these  lines, 
at  arms'-length,  to  the  Count — 1  sunk  back  in  my  chair— 1 
said,  "  Excuse  me;  1  am  entirely  prostrateed;  I  can  do  no 
more.  Will  you  rest  and  lunch  down-stairs?  Love  to  all, 
and  sympathy,  and  so  on.      G^oorf- morni ng. " 

He  made  another  speech — the  man  was  absolutely  inex- 
haustible. 1  closed  my  eyes;  I  endeavored  to  hear  as  little 
as  possible.  In  spite  of  my  endeavors,  I  was  obliged  to 
h«ar  a  great  deal.     My  sister's  endless  husband  congratu- 


348  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

lated  himself  and  congratulated  me  on  the  result  of  our  in- 
terview;  he  mentioned  a  great  deal  more  about  his  sympa- 
thies and  mine;  he  deplored  my  miserable  health;  he  offered 
to  write  me  a  prescription;  he  impressed  on  me  the  neces- 
sity of  not  forgetting  what  he  had  said  about  the  importance 
of  light;  he  accepted  my  obliging  invitation  to  rest  and 
iunch;  he  reconunended  me  to  expect  Lady  Glyde  in  two 
or  three  days'  time;  he  begged  my  permission  to  look  for- 
♦vard  to  our  next  meeting,  instead  of  paining  himself  and 
painin'?  me  by  saying  farewell;  he  added  a  great  deal  more, 
which,  1  rejoice  to  think,  1  did  not  attend  to  at  the  time, 
and  do  not  remember  now.  I  heard  his  sympathetic  voice 
traveling  away  from  me  by  degrees — but,  large  as  he  was, 
1  never  heard  him.  He  had  the  negative  merit  of  being 
absolutely  noiseless.  I  don't  know  when  he  opened  the 
door,  or  when  he  shut  it.  1  ventured  to  make  use  of  my 
eyes  gain,  after  an  interval  of  silence — and  he  was  gone. 

I  rang  for  Louis,  and  retired  to  my  bath-room.  Tepid 
water,  strengthened  with  aromatic  vinegar,  for  myself,  and 
copious  fumigation,  for  my  study,  were  the  obvious  pre- 
cautions to  take,  and  of  course  I  adopted  them.  1  rejoice 
to  say,  they  proved  successful.  I  enjoyed  my  customary 
siesta.     I  awoke  moist  and  cool. 

My  first  inquiries  were  for  the  Count.  Had  we  really  got 
rid  of  him?  Yes — he  had  gone  away  by  the  afternoon 
train.  Had  he  lunched;  and,  if  so,  upon  what?  Entirely 
upon  fruit-tart  and  cream.  What  a  man!  What  a  diges- 
tion! 

Am  1  expected  to  say  anything  more?  1  believe  not.  1 
believe  I  have  reached  the  limits  assigned  to  me.  The 
shocking  circumstances  which  happened  at  a  later  period 
did  not,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  happen  in  my  presence.  I 
do  beg  and  entreat  that  nobody  will  be  so  very  unfeeling 
as  to  lay  any  part  of  the  blame  of  those  circumstances  on 
mc.  I  did  everything  for  the  best.  I  am  not  answerable 
for  a  deplorable  calamity  which  it  was  quite  impossible  to 
foresee.  I  am  shattered  by  it;  I  have  suffered  under  it, 
as  nobody  else  has  suffered.  My  servant,  Louis  (who  is 
really  attac^hi'd  to  me,  in  his  unintelligent  way),  thinks  I 
shall  never  get  over  it.  He  sees  me  dictating  at  this  mo- 
ment, with  my  handkerchief  to  my  eyes.  I  wish  to  men- 
tion, in  juolice   to  myself,  that  it  was  not  my  fault,  and 


THE    WOMAN     IN    WHITE.  349 

that  1  am  quite  exhausted  and  heart-broken.     Need  I  say 
more? 


The  Story  continved  by  Eliza  Michelson,  Housekeeper 
at  Blaokioaier  Park. 

I. 

I  AM  asked  to  state  plainly  what  I  know  of  the  progress 
of  Miss  Halcombe's  illness,  and  of  the  circumstances  under 
which  Lady  Glyde  left  Black  water  Park  for  London. 

The  reason  given  for  making  this  demand  on  me  is,  that 
my  testimony  is  wanted  in  the  interests  of  truth.  As 
the  widow  of  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England  (re- 
duced by  misfortune  to  the  necessity  of  accepting  a  situa- 
tion), I  have  been  taught  to  place  tiie  claims  of  truth  above 
all  other  consideratiotis.  I  therefore  comply  with  a  request 
which  1  might  otherwise,  through  reluctance  to  connect 
myself  with  distressing  family  affairs,  have  hesitated  to 
grant. 

I  made  no  memorandum  at  the  time,  and  I  can  not, 
therefore,  be  sure  to  a  day  of  the  date,  but  1  believe  I  am 
correct  in  stating  that  Miss  Halcombe's  serious  illness  began 
during  the  last  fortnight  or  ten  days  in  June.  The  breakfast 
hour  was  late  at  Blackwater  Park — sometimes  as  late  as 
ten,  never  earlier  than  half  past  nine.  On  the  morning  to 
which  1  am  now  referring.  Miss  Halcombe  (who  was  usu- 
ally the  first  to  come  down)  did  not  make  her  appearance 
at  the  table.  After  the  family  had  waited  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  the  upper  house-maid  was  sent  to  see  after  her,  and 
came  running  out  of  the  room  dreadfully  frightened.  1 
met  the  servant  on  the  stairs,  and  went  at  once  to  Miss 
Halcombe  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  The  poor  lady 
was  incapable  of  telling  me.  She  was  walking  about  her 
room  with  a  pen  in  her  hand,  quite  light-headed,  in  a  state 
of  burning  fever. 

Lady  Glycle  (being  no  longer  in  Sir  Percival's  service,  1 
may,  without  impropriety,  mention  my  former  mistress 
by  her  name,  instead  of  calling  her  My  Lady)  was  the 
first  to  come  in,  from  her  own  bedroom.  She  was  so 
dreadfully  alarmed  and  distressed  that  she  was  quite  use- 
it  ss.  The  Count  Fosco  and  his  Lady,  who  came  upstairs 
immediately  afterward,    were  both  most  serviceable  aad 


350  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

kind.  Her  ladyship  assisted  me  to  get  Miss  Halcombe  tG 
her  bed.  His  lordship  the  Couut  remained  iu  the  sitting- 
room,  and,  having  sent  for  my  medicine-chest,  made  a 
mixture  for  Miss  Halcombe,  and  a  cooling  lotion  to  be  ap- 
plied to  her  head,  so  as  to  lose  no  time  before  the  doctor 
came.  We  applied  the  lotiou,  but  we  could  not  get  her  to 
take  the  mixture.  Sir  Percival  undertook  to  send  for  the 
doctor.  He  dispatched  a  groom  on  horseback,  for  the  near- 
est m.edical  man,  Mr.  Dawson,  of  Oak  Lodge. 

Mr.  Dawson  arrived  in  less  than  an  hour's  tim.e.  He 
was  a  respectable  elderly  man,  well  known  all  round  the 
country,  and  we  were  much  alarmed  when  we  found  that 
he  considered  the  case  to  be  a  very  serious  one. 

His  lordship  the  Count  affably  entered  into  conversation 
with  Mr.  Dawson,  and  gave  his  opinions  with  a  judicious 
freedom.  Mr.  Dawson.,  not  overcourteously,  inquired  if 
his  lordship's  advice  was  the  advice  ot  the  doctor;  and  be- 
ing informed  that  it  was  the  advice  of  one  that  had  studied 
medicine,  unprofessionally,  replied  that  he  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  consult  with  amateur  physicians.  Tho  Count, 
with  truly  Christian  meekness  of  temper,  smiled,  and  left 
the  room.  Before  he  went  out,  he  told  uie  that  he  might  be 
found,  in  case  he  was  wanted  in  the  course  of  the  day,  at 
the  boat-house  on  the  banks  oi  the  lake.  Why  he  should 
has^e  gone  there,  I  can  not  say.  But  he  did  go,  remaining 
away  the  whole  day  till  seven  o'clock,  which  was  dinner- 
time. Perhaps  he  wished  to  set  the  example  of  keeping 
the  house  as  quiet  as  possible.  It  was  entirely  in  his  char- 
acter to  do  so.     He  was  a  most  considerate  nobleman. 

Miss  Halcombe  passed  a  very  bad  night,  the  fever  com- 
ing and  going,  and  getting  worse  toward  morning,  instead 
of  better.  IS'o  nurse  fit  to  wait  on  her  being  near  at  hand 
in  the  neighborhood,  her  ladyship  the  Countess  and  myself, 
undertook  the  duty,  relieving  each  other.  Lady  Clyde, 
most  unwisely,  insisted  on  sitting  up  with  us.  She  was 
much  too  nervous  and  too  delicate  in  health  to  bear  the 
an\iety  of  Miss  Halcombe's  illness  calmly.  She  only  did 
herself  harm,  without  being  of  the  least  real  assistance. 
A  more  gentle  aiid  affectionate  lady  never  lived;  but  she 
cried,  and  she  was  frightened — two  weaknesses  which 
made  her  entirely  unfit  to  be  present  in  a  sick-room. 

Sir  Percival  and  t\w  Count  came  in  th(^  morning  to  make 
their  inquiries. 


THE    "WOMAK    IN    WHITE.  351 

Sir  Percival  (from  distress,  1  presume,  at  his  lady's  afflic- 
tion, and  at  Miss  Haluombe's  ilinora)  appeared  much  con- 
fused and  unsettled  in  his  mind.  His  lordship  testified,  on 
the  contrary,  a  becoming  composure  and  interest.  He  had 
his  straw  hat  in  one  hand  and  his  book  in  the  other;  and 
he  mentioned  to  Sir  Percival,  in  my  hearing,  that  he  would 
go  out  again  and  study  at  the  lake.  "  Let  us  keep  the 
house  quiet,"  he  said.  "  Let  us  not  smoke  in-doors,  my 
friend,  now  Miss  Llalcombe  is  ill.  You  go  your  way  and 
I  will  go  mine.  When  I  study,  1  like  to  be  tilone.  Good- 
morning,  Mrs.  Michelson. " 

Sir  Percival  was  not  civil  enough — perhaps,  I  ought  in 
justice  to  say,  not  composed  enough — to  take  leave  of  m9 
with  the  same  polite  attention.  The  only  person  in  the 
house,  indeed,  who  treated  me,  at  that  timt;  or  any  other, 
on  the  footing  of  a  lady  in  distressed  circumstances,  was 
the  Count.  He  had  the  manners  of  a  true  nobleman;  he 
was  considerate  toward  every  one.  Even  the  young  person 
(Fanny  by  name)  who  attended  on  Lady  Glyde  was  not 
beneath  his  notice.  When  she  was  sent  away  by  Sir  Per- 
cival, liis  lordship  (showing  me  his  sweet  little  birds  at  the 
time)  was  most  kindly  anxious  to  know  what  had  become 
of  her,  where  she  was  to  go  to  the  day  she  left  Blackwater 
Park,  and  so  on.  It  is  in  such  little  delicate  attentions 
that  the  advantages  of  iiristocratic  birth  always  show  them- 
selves. 1  make  no  apology  for  introducing  these  particu- 
lars; they  are  brought  forward  in  justice  to  his  lordship; 
whose  character,  1  have  reason  to  know,  is  viewed  rather 
harshly  in  certain  quarters.  A  nobleman  who  can  respect 
a  lady  in  distressed  circumstances,  and  can  take  a  fatherly 
interest  in  the  fortunes  of  an  humble  servant-girl,  shows 
principles  and  feelings  of  too  high  an  order  to  be  lightly 
called  in  question.  I  advance  no  opinions — I  offer  facts 
only.  My  endeavor  through  life  is  to  judge  not,  that  I  be 
not  judged.  One  of  nay  beloved  husband's  finest  sermons 
was  on  that  text.  I  read  it  constantly — in  my  own  copy 
of  the  edition  printed  by  subscription,  in  the  first  days  of 
my  wiaowhood — and,  in  every  fresh  perusal,  I  derive  an 
increase  of  spiritual  benefit  and  edification. 

There  M'as  no  improvement  in  Miss  Halcombe,  and  the 
second  night  was  even  worse  than  the  first.  Mr.  Dawson 
was  constant  in  his  attendance.  The  practical  duties  o{ 
nursing  were  still  divided  between  the  Countess  and  myself^ 


352  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Liidy  Glyde  persisting  iu  sitting  up  with  us,  though  we  both 
entreated  her  to  take  some  rest.  "  My  place  is  by  Marianas 
bedside/'  was  her  only  answer.  "  AVhether  I  am  ill  or 
well,  nothing  will  induce  me  to  lose  sight  of  her." 

Toward  midday  I  went  down-stairs  to  attend  to  some  of 
my  regular  duties.  An  hour  afterward,  on  my  way  back 
to  the  sick-room,  I  saw  the  Count  (who  had  gone  out 
again  early,  for  the  third  time)  entering  the  hall,  to  all  ap- 
pearances in  the  highest  good  spirits.  Sir  Percival,  at  the 
same  moment,  put  his  liead  out  of  the  library  door,  and 
addressed  his  noble  friend,  with  extreme  eagerness,  in  these 
words: 

"  Have  you  found  her?" 

His  lordship's  large  face  became  dimpled  all  over  with 
placid  smiles;  but  he  made  no  reply  in  woixls.  At  the  same 
time  Sir  Percival  turned  his  head,  observed  that  I  was  ap- 
proaching the  stairs,  and  looked  at  me  in  the  most  rudely 
angry  manner  possible. 

"  Come  in  here  and  tell  me  about  it,"  he  said  to  the 
Count.  "  Whenever  there  are  women  in  the  house,  they're 
always  sure  be  going  up  or  down-stairs." 

"  My  dear  Percival,"  observed  his  lordship,  kindly, 
"  Mrs.  Michelson  has  duties.  Pray  recognize  her  admira- 
ble performance  of  them  as  sincerely  as  I  do!  How  is  the 
sufferer,  Mrs.  Michelson?" 

"  No  better,  my  lord,  I  regret  to  say." 

"Sad — most  sad!"  remarked  the  Count.  "  You  look 
fatigued,  Mrs.  Michelson.  It  is  certainly  time  you  and 
my  wife  had  some  help  in  nursing.  I  think  I  may  be  the 
means  of  offering  you  that  help.  Circumstances  have  hap- 
pened which  will  oblige  M«dame  Fosco  to  travel  to  Lon- 
don, either  to-morrow  or  the  day  after.  She  will  go  away 
in  the  morning,  and  return  at  night;  and  she  will  bring 
back  with  her,  to  relieve  you,  a  nurse  of  excellent  conduct 
and  capacity,  who  is  now  disengaged.  The  woman  is 
known  to  my  wife  as  a  person  to  be  trusted.  Before  she 
comes  here,  say  nothing  about  her,  if  you  please,  to  the 
doctor,  because  he  will  look  with  an  evil  eye  on  any  nurse 
of  my  providing.  When  she  appears  in  this  house  she  will 
speak  for  herself,  and  Mr.  Dawson  will  be  obliged  to  ac- 
knowledge that  there  is  no  excuse  for  not  employing  her. 
Lady  Glyde  will  say  the  same.  Pray  present  my  best  r«- 
Bpicts  and  sympathies  to  Lady  Glyde." 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  353 

1  expressed  my  grateful  acknowledgments  for  his  lord- 
ship's kind  consideration.  Sir  Percival  cut  them  short  by 
calling  to  his  noble  friend  (using,  I  regret  to  say,  a  profane 
expression)  to  come  into  the  library,  and  not  to  keep  him 
waiting  there  any  longer. 

1  proceeded  upstairs.  We  are  poor  erring  creatures,  and 
however  well  established  a  woman's  principles  may  be,  she 
can  not  always  keep  on  her  guard  against  the  temptation 
to  exercise  an  idle  curiosity.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  an 
idle  curiosity,  on  this  occasion,  got  the  better  of  my  princi- 
ples, and  made  me  unduly  inquisitive  about  the  question 
which  Sir  Percival  had  addressed  to  his  noble  friend  at  the 
library  door.  Who  was  the  Count  expected  to  find  in  the 
course  of  his  studious  morning  rambles  at  Blackvvater 
Park?  A  woman,  it  was  to  be  presumed,  from  the  terms 
of  Sir  Percival's  inquiry.  1  did  not  suspect  the  Count  of 
any  imp'-opriety — I  knew  his  moral  character  too  well. 
The  only  question  I  asked  myself  was — Had  he  found  her? 

To  resume.  The  nig-ht  passed  as  usual,  without  produc- 
ing any  change  for  the  better  in  Miss  Halcombe.  The  next 
day  she  seemed  to  improve  a  little.  The  day  after  that, 
her  ladyship  the  Countess,  without  mentioning  the  object 
of  her  journey  to  any  one  in  my  hearing,  proceeded  by  the 
morning  train  to  London,  her  noble  husband,  with  his 
customary  attention,  accompanying  her  to  the  station. 

I  was  now  left  in  sole  charge  of  Mfss  Halcombe,  with 
every  apparent  chance,  in  consequence  of  her  sister's  reso- 
lution not  to  leave  the  bedside,  of  having  Lady  Clyde  her- 
self to  nurse  next. 

The  only  circumstance  of  any  importance  that  happened 
in  the  course  of  the  day  was  the  occurrence  of  another  un- 
pleasant meeting  between  the  doctor  and  the  Count. 

His  lordship,  on  returning  from  the  station,  stepped  up 
into  Miss  Halcombe's  sitting-room,  to  make  his  inquiries. 
1  went  out  from  the  bedroom  to  speak  to  him,  Mr.  Dawson 
and  Lady  Clyde  being  both  with  the  patient  at  the  time. 
The  Count  asked  me  many  questions  about  the  treatment 
and  the  symptoms.  I  informed  him  that  the  treatment 
was  of  the  kind  described  as  "  saline,"  and  that  the  symp- 
toms between  the  attacks  of  fever  were  certainly  those  of 
increasing  weakness  and  exhaustion.  Just  as  I  was  men- 
tioning these  last  particulars,  Mr.  Dawson  came  out  from 
the  bedroom. 

13 


354  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  said  his  lordship,  stepping  forward 
in  the  most  urbane  manner,  and  stopping  the  doctor,  with 
a  high-bred  resolution  impossible  to  resist;  "  I  greatly  fear 
you  find  no  improvement  in  the  symptoms  to-day?"  - 

"  I  find  decided  improvement,"  answered  Mr.  Dawson. 

"  You  still  persist  in  your  lowering  treatment  of  this 
case  of  fever?"  continued  his  lordship. 

"  I  persist  in  the  treatment  which  is  justified  by  my  own 
professional  experience,"  said  Mr.  Dawson. 

"  Permit  me  to  put  one  question  to  you  on  the  vast  sub- 
ject of  professional  experience,"  observed  the  Count.  "  I 
presume  to  offer  no  more  advice — I  only  presume  to  make 
an  inquiry.  You  live  at  some  distance,  sir,  from  the  gi- 
gantic centers  of  scientific  activity — London  aud  Paris. 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  wasting  effects  of  fever  being 
reasonably  and  intelligibly  repaired  by  fortifying  the  ex- 
hausted patient  with  brandy,  wine,  ammonia,  and  quinine? 
Has  that  new  heresy  of  the  highest  medical  authorities  ever 
reached  your  ears.     Yes,  or  No?" 

"  When  a  professional  man  puts  that  question  to  me,  1 
shall  be  ghul  to  answer  him,"  said  the  doctor,  opening  tiie 
door  to  go  out.  "  You  are  not  a  professional  man,  and  1 
beg  to  decline  answering  you.'^ 

Buffeted  in  this  inexcusably  uncivil  way,  on  one  cheek, 
the  Count,  like  a  practical  Christian,  immediately  turned 
the  other,  and  said,  in  the  sweetest  manner,  "  Good-morn- 
ing, Mr.  Dawson." 

If  my  late  beloved  husband  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
know  his  lordship,  how  highly  he  aud  the  Count  would 
have  esteemed  each  other! 

Her  ladyship  the  Countess  returned  by  the  last  train  thai 
night,  and  brought  with  her  the  nurse  from  London.  I 
was  instructed  that  this  person's  name  was  Mrs.  Rubelle. 
Her  personal  appearance,  and  her  imperfect  English,  when 
she  spoke    informed  me  that  she  was  a  foreigner. 

I  have  always  cultivated  a  feeling  of  humane  indulgence 
for  foreigners.  They  do  not  possess  our  blessings  and  ad- 
vantages, and  they  are,  for  the  most  part,  brought  up  in 
the  blind  errors  of  popery.  It  has  also  always  been  my 
i)recept  and  practice,  as  it  was  my  dear  husband's  precept 
and  practice  before  mo  (see  Sermon  xxix.,  in  the  Collection 
by  the  late  Rev.   Samuel  Michelson,  M.   A.),  to  do  as  1 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  355 

would  be  done  by.  On  both  these  accounts,  I  will  not  aaj 
that  Mrs.  Rubelle  struck  me  as  being  a  small,  wiry,  sly  per- 
son, of  fifty  or  thereabouts,  with  a  dark  brown  or  Creole 
complexion,  and  watchful,  light  gray  eyes.  Nor  will  1 
mention,  for  the  reasons  just  alleged,  that  1  thought  her 
dress,  though  it  was  of  the  plainest  black  silk,  inappropri- 
ately costly  in  texture  and  unnecessarily  refined  in  trim- 
ming and  finish  for  a  person  in  her  position  in  life.  I 
should  not  like  these  things  to  be  said  of  me,  and  therefore 
it  is  my  duty  not  to  say  them  of  Mrs.  liubelle.  1  will 
merely  mention  that  her  manners  were — not,  perhaps,  un- 
pleasantly reserved — but  only  remarkably  quiet  and  retir- 
ing; that  she  looked  about  hev  a  great  deal,  and  said  very 
little,  which  might  have  arisen  quite  as  much  from  hei  own 
modesty  as  from  distrust  of  her  position  at  Blackwater 
Park;  and  that  she  declined  to  partake  of  supper  (which 
was  curious,  perhaps,  but  surely  not  suspicious?),  although 
I  myself  politely  invited  her  to  that  meal,  in  my  own  room. 

At  the  Count's  particular  suggestion  (so  like  his  lord- 
ship's forgiving  kindness!),  it  was  arranged  that  Mrs.  Ha- 
belle  should  not  enter  on  her  duties  until  she  had  been  seen 
and  approved  by  the  doctor  the  next  morning.  I  sat  up 
that  night.  Lady  Clyde  appeared  to  be  very  unwilling 
that  the  new  nurse  should  be  employed  to  attend  on  Miss 
Halcombe.  Such  want  of  liberality  toward  a  foreigner  on 
the  part  of  a  lady  of  her  education  and  refinement  surprised 
me.  I  ventured  to  say,  "  My  lady,  we  must  all  remembei 
not  to  be  hasty  in  our  judgments  on  our  inferiors— 
especially  when  they  come  from  foreign  parts."  Lady 
Clyde  did  not  appear  to  attend  to  me.  She  only  sighed, 
and  kissed  Miss  Halcombe's  hand  as  it  lay  on  the  counter- 
pane. Scarcely  a  judicious  proceeding  in  a  sick-room,  with 
a  patient  whom  it  was  highly  desirable  not  to  excite.  But 
poor  Lady  Clyde  knew  nothing  of  nursing — nothing  what- 
ever, I  am  sorry  to  say. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Eubelle  was  sent  to  the  sitting- 
room,  to  be  approved  by  the  doctor,  on  his  way  through  tc 
the  bedroom. 

1  left  Lady  Clyde  with  Miss  Halcombe,  who  was  slum- 
bering at  the  time,  and  joined  Mrs.  Rubelle,  with  the  ob- 
ject of  kindly  preventing  lier  from  feeling  strange  and' 
nervous  in  consequence  of  the  uncertainty  of  her  situation. 
She  did  not  appear  to  see  it  in  that  light.     She  seemed  to 


356  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

be  quite  satisfied,  beforehand,  that  Mr.  Dawson  would  ap- 
prove of  her,  and  she  sat  calmly  looking  out  of  the  window, 
with  every  appearance  of  enjoying  the  country  air.  Some 
people  might  have  thought  such  conduct  suggestive  of 
brazen  assurance.  1  beg  to  say  that  I  more  liberally  set  it 
down  to  extraordinary  sti-ength  of  mind. 

Instead  of  the  doctor  coming  up  to  us,  I  was  sent  for  to 
see  the  doctor.  I  thought  this  change  of  affairs  rathei 
odd,  but  Mrs.  Rubelle  did  not  appear  to  be  atl'ected  by  it 
in  any  way.  1  left  her  still  calmly  lookirg  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  still  silently  enjoying  the  country  air. 

Mr.  Dawson  was  waiting  for  me,  by  himself,  in  the 
breakfast-room. 

"  About  this  new  nurse,  Mrs.  Michelson,*'  said  the  doc- 
tor. 

"  Yes,  sir?'' 

"  1  find  that  she  has  been  brought  here  from  London  by 
the  wife  of  that  fat  old' foreigner,  who  is  always  trying  to 
interfere  with  me.  Mrs.  Micheison,  the  fat  old  foreigner 
is  a  Quack." 

This  was  very  rude.     I  was  naturally  shocked  at  it. 

"  Are  you  aware,  sir,''  I  said,  "  that  you  are  talking  of 
a  nobleman?" 

"  Pooh!  He  isn't  the  first  Quack  with  a  handle  to  his 
name.     They're  all  Counts — hang  'em!" 

"  He  would  not  be  a  friend  ot  Sir  Percival  Glyde's.  sir, 
if  he  was  not  a  member  of  the  highest  aristocracy — except- 
ing the  English  aristocracy,  of  course." 

"  Very  well,  Mrs.  Micheison,  call  him  what  you  like; 
and  let  us  get  back  to  the  nurse.  I  have  been  objecting  to 
her  already." 

"  SVithout  having  seen  her,  sir?" 

"  Yes,  without  having  seen  her.  She  may  be  the  best 
nurse  in  existence;  but  she  is  not  a  nurse  of  my  providing. 
1  have  put  that  objection  to  Sir  Percival,  as  the  master  of 
the  house.  He  doesn't  support  me.  He  says  a  nurse  of 
my  providing  would  have  bt'cn  a  stranger  from  London 
also;  and  he  thinks  the  woman  ought  to  have  a  trial,  after 
his  wife's  aunt  has  taken  the  trouble  to  fetch  her  from  Lon- 
don. There  is  some  justice  in  that;  and  I  can't  decently 
say  No.  But  I  have  made  it  a  condition  that  she  is  to  go 
at  once,  if  1  find  reason  to  complain  of  her.  Tin's  pro- 
posal being  one  which  I  have  some  right  to  make,  as  med- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITl,.  357 

3cal  attendant,  Sir  Percival  has  consented  to  it.  Now,  Mrs. 
Michelson,  I  know  1  can  depend  on  yon;  and  I  want  you 
to  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  the  nurse  for  the  first  day  or  two, 
and  to  see  that  she  gives  Miss  Halcombe  no  medicines  but 
mine.  This  foreign  nobleman  of  yours  is  dying  to  try  his 
quack  remedies  (mesmerism  included)  on  my  patient,  and 
a  nurse  who  is  brought  here  by  his  wife  may  be  a  little  too 
willing  to  help  him.  You  understand?  Very  well,  then, 
we  may  go  upstairs.  Is  the  nurse  there?  I'Jl  say  a  vvord 
to  her,  before  she  goes  into  the  sick-room." 

We  found  Mrs.  Rubelle  still  enjoying  herself  at  the  win- 
dow. When  I  introduced  her  to  Mr.  Dawson,  neither  the 
doctor's  doubtful  looks  nor  the  doctor's  searching  questions 
appeared  to  confuse  her  in  the  least.  She  answered  him 
quietly  in  her  broken  English;  and,  though  he  tried  hard 
to  puzzle  her,  she  never  betrayed  the  least  ignorance,  so 
far,  about  any  part  of  her  duties.  This  was  doubtless  the 
result  of  strength  of  mind,  as  1  said  before,  and  not  of 
brazen  assurance,  by  any  means. 

We  all  went  into  the  bedroom. 

Mrs.  Rubelle  looked  very  attentively  at  the  patient; 
courtesied  to  LadyGlyde;  set  one  or  two  little  things  right 
in  the  room;  and  sat  down  quietly  in  a  corner  to  wait  until 
she  was  wanted.  Her  ladyship  seemed  startled  and  an- 
noyed by  the  atjpearance  of  the  strange  nurse.  No  one  said 
anything,  for  fear  of  rousing  Miss  Halcombe,  who  was  still 
slumbering — exce^it  the  doctor,  who  whispered  a  question 
about  the  night.  I  softly  answered,  "  Much  as  usual;" 
and  then  Mr.  Dawson  went  out.  Lady  Glyde  followed  him, 
1  suppose  to  speak  about  Mrs.  Rubelle.  For  my  own  part, 
1  had  made  up  my  mind  already  that  this  quiet  foreign  per- 
son would  keep  her  situation.  She  had  all  her  wits  about 
her,  and  she  certainly  understood  her  business.  So  far,  I 
could  hardly  have  done  much  better  by  the  bedside  myself. 

Remembering  Mr.  Dawson's  caution  to  me,  I  subjected 
Mrs.  Rubelle  to  a  severe  scrutiny,  at  certain  intervals,  for 
the  next  three  or  four  days,  I  over  and  over  again  entered 
the  room  softly  and  suddenly,  but  I  never  found  her  out  in 
any  suspicious  action.  Lady  Glyde,  who  watched  her  as 
attentively  as  I  did,  discovered  nothing  either.  1  never 
detected  a  sign  of  the  medicine-bottles  being  tampered 
with;  I  never  saw  Mrs.  Rubelle  say  a  word  to  the  Count. 
Of  the  Count  to  her.     She   managed  Miss  Halcombe  with 


358  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

unquestionable  care  and  discretion.  The  poor  lady  war- 
cred  backwiird  and  forward  between  a  sort  of  sleepy  ex- 
haustion which  was  half  faintness  and  half  slumbering,  and 
attacks  of  fever  which  brought  with  them  more  or  less  of 
wandering  in  her  mind,  Mrs.  Rubelle  never  disturbed  her 
in  the  first  case,  and  never  startled  her  in  the  second,  by 
appearing  too  suddenly  at  the  bedside  in  the  character  of 
a  stranger.  Honor  to  whom  honor  is  due  (whether  foreign 
or  Euglish) — and  1  give  her  privilege  impartially  to  Mrs. 
Rubelle.  She  was  remarkably  uncommunicative  about 
herself,  and  she  was  too  quietly  independent  of  all  advice 
from  experienced  persons  who  understood  the  duties  of  a 
sick-room — but,  with  these  drawbacks,  she  was  a  good 
nurse;  and  she  never  gave  either  Lady  Glyde  or  Mr.  Daw- 
son the  shadow  of  a  reason  for  complaining  of  her. 

The  next  circumstance  of  importance  that  occurred  in 
the  house  was  the  temporary  absence  of  the  Count,  occa- 
sioned by  business  which  took  him  to  London.  He  went 
away  (1  think)  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  after  the 
arrival  of  Mrs.  Rubelle,  and  at  parting  he  spoke  to  Lady 
Glyde,  very  seriously,  in  my  presence,  on  the  subject  of 
Miss  Halcombe. 

"  Trust  Mr.  Dawson,"  he  said,  "  for  a  few  days  more, 
if  you  please.  But  if  there  is  not  some  change  for  the  bet- 
ter in  that  time,  send  for  advice  from  Loudon,  which  this 
mule  of  a  doctor  must  accept  in  spite  of  himself.  Offend 
Mr.  Dawson,  and  save  Miss  Halcombe.  I  say  this  seri- 
ously, on  my  word  of  honor  and  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart." 

His  lordship  spoke  with  extreme  feeling  and  kindness. 
But  poor  Lady  Glyde's  nerves  were  so  completely  broken 
down  that  she  seemed  quite  frightened  at  him.  She 
trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  allowed  him  to  take  his 
leave  without  uttering  a  word  on  her  side.  She  turned  to 
me,  when  he  had  gone,  and  said,  "  Oh,  Mrs,  Michelson,  I 
am  heart-broken  about  my  sister,  and  I  have  no  friend  to 
advise  me!  Do  you  thii\kMr.  Dawson  is  wrong?  He  told 
me  himself  this  morning  that  there  was  no  fear,  and  no 
need  to  send  for  another  doctor  " 

"  With  all  respect  to  Mr.  Dawson,"  1  answered,  "in 
your  ladyship's  place-  ^  should  remember  the  Count's  ad* 
vice. ' ' 


THE     WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  359 

Lady  Glyde  turned  away  from  me  suddenly,  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  despair,  for  w'liich  1  was  quite  unable  to  account. 

*'  Bis  advice!"  she  said  to  herself.  "  God  help  us — his 
advice!'^ 

The  Count  was  away  from  Blackwater  Park,  as  nearly 
as  1  remember,  a  weeL 

Sir  rercival  seemed  to  feel  the  loss  of  his  lordship  in  va- 
rious ways,  and  appeared  also,  I  thought,  much  depressed 
and  altered  by  the  sickness  and  sorrow  in  the  house.  Oc- 
casionally he  was  so  very  restless  that  I  could  not  help 
noticing  it,  coming  and  going,  and  wandering  here  and 
there  and  everywhere  in  the  grounds.  His  inquiries  about 
Miss  Halcombe,  and  about  his  lady  (whose  failing  health 
seemed  to  cause  him  sincere  anxiety)  were  most  attentive. 
1  think  his  heart  was  much  softened.  If  some  kind  cler- 
ical friend — some  such  friend  as  he  might  have  found  in  my 
late  excellent  husband — had  been  near  him  at  tiiis  time, 
cheering  moral  progress  might  have  been  made  with  Sir 
Percival.  I  seldom  find  myself  mistaken  on  a  point  of  this 
sort,  having  had  experience  to  guide  me  in  my  happy  mar- 
ried days. 

Her  ladyship  the  Countess,  who  was  now  the  only  com- 
pany for  Sir  Percival  down-stairs,  rather  neglected  him, 
as  I  considered.  Or,  perhaps,  it  might  have  been  that  he 
neglected  her.  A  stranger  might  almost  have  supposed  that 
they  were  bent,  now  they  were  left  together  alone,  on  actual- 
ly avoiding  each  other.  This,  of  course,  could  not  be.  But 
it  did  so  happen,  nevertheless,  that  the  Countess  made  her 
dinner  at  luncheon-time,  and  tliatsiie  always  came  upstairs 
toward  evening,  although  Mrs.  Rubellehad  taken  the  nurs- 
ing duties  entirely  off  her  hands.  Sir  Percival  dined  by 
liimself,  and  William  (the  man  out  of  livery)  made  the  re- 
mark, in  my  hearing,  that  his  master  had  put  himself  on 
half  rations  of  food  and  on  a  double  allowance  of  drink. 
I  attach  no  importance  to  such  an  insolent  observation  as 
this,  on  the  part  of  a  servant.  I  reprobated  it  at  the  tune, 
and  I  wish  to  be  understood  as  reprobating  it  once  more  on 
this  occasion. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  days  Miss  Halcombe  did 
certainly  seem  to  all  of  us  to  be  mending  a  little.  Our 
faith  in  Mr.  Dawson  revived.  He  appeared  to  be  very  con- 
tidcat  about  the  case,  and  li«  assured  Lady  Glyde,  when  she 


360  THE    WOMAN    JN     WHITE. 

spoke  to  him  on  the  subject,  that  he  would  himself  propose 
to  send  for  a  physioiati  the  moment  he  felt  so  much  as  the 
shiidow  of  a  doubt  crossing  his  own  mind. 

The  only  person  among  us  who  did  not  appear  to  be  re- 
lieved by  these  words  was  tlie  Countess.  She  said  to  me 
privately  that  she  could  not  feel  easy  about  Miss  Halcombe 
on  Mr.  Dawson's  authority,  and  that  she  should  wait 
anxiously  for  her  husband's  opinion,  on  his  return.  That 
return,  his  letters  informed  her,  would  take  place  in  three 
days'  time.  The  Count  and  Countess  corresponded  regu- 
larly every  morning,  during  his  lordship's  absence.  They 
were  in  that  respect,  as  in  all  others,  a  pattern  to  married 
people. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  1  noticed  a  change  in 
Miss  Halcombe,  which  caused  me  serious  apprehension. 
Mrs.  Kubelle  noticed  it  too.  We  said  nothing  on  the  sub- 
ject to  Lady  Glyde,  who  was  then  lying  asleep,  completely 
overpowered  by  exhaustion,  on  the  sofa  in  the  sitting-room. 

Mr.  Dawson  did  not  pay  his  evening  visit  till  later  than 
usual.  As  soon  as  he  set  eyes  on  his  patient  1  saw  his  face 
alter.  He  tried  to  hide  it,  but  he  looked  both  confused 
and  alarmed.  A  messenger  was  sent  to  his  residence  for 
his  medicine-chest,  disinfecting  preparations  were  used  in 
the  room,  and  a  bed  was  made  up  for  him  in  the  house  by 
his  own  directions.  "  Has  the  fever  turned  to  infection?" 
I  whispered  to  him.  "  1  am  afraid  it  has,"  he  answered; 
"  we  shall  know  better  to-morrow  morning." 

By  Mr.  Dawson's  own  directions  Lady  Glyde  was  kept  in 
ignorance  of  this  change  for  the  worse.  He  himself  abso- 
lutely forbade  her,  on  account  of  her  health,  to  join  us  in 
the  bedroom  that  night.  She  tried  to  resist — there  was  a 
sad  scene — but  he  had  his  medical  authority  to  support  him, 
and  he  carried  his  point. 

The  next  morning  one  of  the  men-servants  was  sent  to 
London,  at  eleven  o'clock,  with  a  letter  to  a  physician  in 
town,  and  with  orders  to  briag  the  new  doctor  back  with 
him  by  the  earliest  possible  train.  Half  an  hour  after  the 
messenger  had  gone  the  Count  returned  to  Blackwater 
Park. 

The  Countess,  on  her  own  responsibility,  immediately 
brought  him  in  to  see  the  patient.  There  was  no  impro- 
priety that  I  could  discover  in  her  taking  this  course.  His 
lordship  was  a  married  man;  he  was  old  enough  to  be  Miss 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  361 

Haicombe's  father;  and  he  saw  her  in  the  presence  of  a 
female  relative.  Lady  Glyde's  aunt.  Mr.  Dawson,  never- 
theless, protested  against  his  presence  in  the  room;  but,  I 
could  plainly  remark,  the  doctor  was  too  much  alarmed  to 
make  any  serious  resistance  on  this  occasion. 

The  poor  suffering  lady  was  past  knowing  any  one  about 
her.  She  seemed  to  take  her  friends  for  enemies.  When 
the  Count  approached  her  bedside,  her  eyes,  which  had 
jeen  wandering  incessantly  round  and  round  the  room  be- 
fore, settled  on  his  face  with  a  dreadful  stare  of  terror, 
which  1  shall  remember  to  my  dying  day.  The  Count  sat 
down  by  her,  felt  her  pulse  and  her  temples,  looked  at  her 
very  attentively,  and  then  turned  round  upon  the  doctor 
with  such  an  expression  of  indignation  and  contempt  in  his 
face  that  the  words  failed  on  Mr.  Dawson's  lips,  and  he 
stood  for  a  moment  pale  with  anger  and  alarm— pale  and 
perfectly  speechless. 

His  lordship  looked  next  at  me. 

"  When  did  the  change  happen.^"  he  asked. 

I  told  him  the  time. 

"  Has  Lady  Clyde  been  in  the  room  since?* 

I  replied  that  she  had  not.  The  doctor  had  absolutely 
forbidden  her  to  come  iotothe  room  on  the  evening  before, 
and  had  repeated  the  order  again  in  the  morning. 

"  Have  you  and  Mrs.  Rubelle  been  made  aware  of  the 
full  extent  of  the  mischief?"  was  his  next  question. 

We  were  aware,  1  answered,  that  the  malady  was  consid- 
ered infectious.  He  stopped  me  before  1  could  add  any- 
thing more. 

"  It  is  typhus  fever,"  he  said. 

In  the  minute  that  passed,  while  these  questions  and  an- 
swers were  going  on,  Mr.  Dawson  recovered  himself,  and 
addressed  the  Count  with  his  customary  firmness. 

"  It  is  not  typhus  fever,''  he  remarked,  sharply.  "  I 
protest  against  this  intrusion,  sir.  No  one  has  a  right  to 
put  questions  here  but  me.  1  have  done  my  duty  to  the 
best  of  my  ability — " 

The  Count  interrupted  him— not  by  words,  but  only  by 
pointing  to  the  bed.  Mr.  Dawson  seemed  to  feel  that  silent 
contradiction  to  his  assertion  of  his  own  ability,  and  to  grow 
only  the  more  angry  under  it. 

"  1  say  I  have  done  my  duty,"  he  reiterated.  "  A  phy-, 
siciau  has  been  sent  for  from  London.     I  will  consult  on 


362  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

the  nature  of  the  fever  with  him,  and  with  no  one  else.  1 
insist  on  your  leaving  the  room/' 

"  1  entered  this  room,  sir,  in  the  sacred  interests  of  hu- 
manity," said  the  Count,  "  And  in  the  same  interests,  if 
the  coming  of  the  physician  is  delayed,  I  will  enter  it  again. 
I  warn  you  once  more  that  the  fever  has  turned  to  typhus, 
and  that  your  treatment  is  responsible  for  this  lamentable 
change.  If  that  unhappy  lady  dies,  I  will  give  my  testi- 
mony in  a  court  of  justice  that  your  ignorance  and  obstinacy 
have  been  the  cause  of  her  death. " 

Before  Mr.  Dawson  could  answer,  before  the  Count 
could  leave  us,  the  door  was  opened  from  the  sitting-room, 
and  we  saw  Lady  Clyde  on  the  threshold. 

"  I  must  and  tvill  come  in,"  she  said,  with  extraordinary 
firmness. 

Instead  of  stopping  her,  the  Count  moved  into  the 
sitting-room,  and  made  way  for  her  to  go  in.  On  all  other 
occasions  he  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  forget  any- 
thing, but,  in  the  surprise  of  the  moment,  he  apparently 
forgot  the  danger  of  infection  from  typhus,  and  the  urgent 
necessity  of  forcing  Ladv  Clyde  to  take  proper  care  of  her- 
self. 

To  my  astonishment,  Mr.  Dawson  showed  more  presence 
of  mind.  He  stopped  her  ladyship  at  the  first  step  she  took 
toward  the  bedside.  "  I  am  sincerely  sorry,  I  am  sincerly 
grieved,"  he  said.  "  The  fever  may,  I  fear,  be  infectious. 
Until  I  am  certain  that  it  is  not,  I  entreat  ycu  to  keep  out 
of  the  room." 

She  struggled  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly  dropped  hev 
arms  and  sunk  forward.  She  had  fainted.  The  Countess 
and  I  took  her  from  the  doctor,  and  carried  her  into  her 
own  room.  The  Count  preceded  us,  and  waited  in  the 
passage  till  1  came  out  and  told  him  that  we  had  recovered 
her  from  the  swoon. 

I  went  back  to  the  doctor  to  tell  him,  by  Lady  Clyde's 
desire,  that  she  insisted  on  speaking  to  him  immediately. 
He  withdrew  at  once,  to  quiet  her  ladyship's  agitation,  and 
to  assure  her  of  the  physician's  arrival  in  the  course  of  a 
few  hours.  Those  hours  passed  very  slowly.  Sir  Percival 
and  the  Count  were  together  down-stairs,  and  sent  up,  from 
lime  to  time,  to  make  their  inquiries.  At  last,  between 
five  and  six  o'clock,  to  our  great  relief,  the  physician  came. 

He  was  a  younger  man  than  Mr.  Dawson,  verj'  serious, 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE.  363 

and  very  decided.  What  he  thought  of  the  previous  treat- 
ment I  can  not  say;  but  it  struck  me  as  curious  that  he 
put  many  more  questions  to  myself  and  to  Mrs.  Rubelle 
than  he  put  to  the  doctor,  and  that  he  did  not  appear  to 
listen  with  much  interest  to  what  Mr.  Dawson  said  while 
he  was  examining  Mr.  Dawson's  patient.  I  began  to  sus- 
pect, from  what  1  observed  in  this  way,  that  the  Count  had 
been  right  about  the  illness  all  the  way  through;  and  1  was 
naturally  confirmed  in  that  idea  when  Mr.  Dawson,  after 
some  little  delay,  asked  the  one  important  question  which 
the  London  doctor  had  been  sent  for  to  set  at  rest. 

"  What  is  your  opinion  of  the  fever?"  he  inquired. 

"  Typhus,"  replied  the  physician.  "  Typhus  fever,  be- 
yond all  doubt," 

That  quiet  foreign  person,  Mrs.  Rubelle,  crossed  her 
thin,  brown  hands  in  front  of  her,  aiid  looked  at  me  with  a 
very  significant  smile.  The  Count  himself  could  hardly 
have  appeared  more  gratified  if  he  had  been  present  in  the 
room,  and  had  heard  the  confirmation  of  his  own  opinion. 

After  giving  us  some  useful  directions  about  the  man- 
agement of  the  patient,  and  mentioning  that  he  would  come 
again  in  five  days'  time,  the  physician  withdrew  to  consult 
in  private  with  Mr.  Dawson,  lie  would  ofi:'er  no  opinion 
on  Miss  Halcombe's  chances  of  recovery:  he  said  it  was  im- 
possible, at  that  stage  of  the  illness,  to  pronounce  one  way 
or  the  other. 

The  five  days  passed  anxiously. 

Countess  Fosco  and  myself  took  it  by  turns  to  relieve 
Mrs.  Rubelle,  Miss  Halcombe's  condition  growing  worse 
and  worse,  and  requiring  our  utmost  care  and  attention. 
It  was  a  terribly  trying  time.  Lady  Glyde  (supported,  as 
Mr.  Dawson  said,  by  the  constant  strain  of  her  suspense  on 
her  sister's  account)  rallied  in  the  most  extraordinary  man- 
ner, and  showed  a  firmness  and  determination  for  which  1 
should  myself  never  have  given  her  credit.  She  insisted 
on  coming  into  the  sick-room  two  or  three  times  everyday, 
to  look  at  Miss  Halcombe  with  her  own  eyes,  promising 
not  to  go  too  close  to  the  bed,  if  the  doctor  would  consent 
to  her  wishes  so  far.  Mr.  Dawson  very  unwillingly  made 
the  concession  required  of  him;  I  think  he  saw  that  it  was 
hopeless  to  dispute  with  her.  She  came  in  every  day,  and 
she  self-denyiugly  kept  her  promise.     I  felt  it  personally  so 


364  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

distressing  (as  remind inpj  me  of  my  own  affliction  during 
my  Iiusbaiid's  last  illness)  to  see  how  sbe  suffered  under 
these  circumstances,  that  I  must  beg  not  to  dwell  on  this 
part  of  the  subject  any  longer.  It  is  more  agreeable  to  me 
to  mention  that  no  fresh  disputes  took  place  between  Mr. 
Dawson  and  the  Count.  His  lordsiiip  made  all  his  in- 
quiries by  deputy,  and  remained  continually  in  company 
with  Sir  Percival  down-stairs. 

On  the  fifth  day  the  physician  came  again,  and  gave  us 
a  little  hope.  He  said  the  tenth  day  from  the  first  appear- 
ance of  the  typhus  would  probably  decide  the  result  of  the 
illness,  and  he  arrannged  for  his  third  visit  to  take  place 
on  that  date.  The  interval  passed  as  before,  except  that 
the  Count  went  to  London  again,  one  morning,  and  re^ 
turned  at  night. 

On  the  tenth  day  it  pleased  a  merciful  Providence  to  re- 
lieve our  household  from  all  further  anxiety  and  alarm. 
The  physician  positively  assured  us  that  Miss  Halcombe 
was  out  of  danger.  "  She  wants  no  doctor  now — all  she 
requires  is  careful  watching  and  nursing,  for  some  time  to 
come;  and  that  I  see  she  has.''  Those  were  his  own  words. 
That  evening  I  read  my  husband's  touching  sermon  on  Re- 
covery from  Sickness  with  more  happiness  and  advantage 
(in  a  spiritual  point  of  view)  than  1  ever  remember  to  have 
derived  from  it  before. 

The  effect  of  the  good  news  on  poor  Lady  Clyde  was,  1 
grieve  to  say,  quite  overpowering.  She  was  too  weak  to 
bear  the  violent  reaction,  and  in  another  day  or  two  she 
sunk  iuto  a  state  of  debility  and  depression  which  obliged 
her  to  keep  her  room.  Rest  and  quiet,  and  change  of  air 
afterward,  were  the  best  remedies  which  Mr.  Dawson  could 
suggest  for  her  benefit.  It  was  fortunate  that  matters  were 
no  worse,  for,  on  the  very  day  after  she  took  to  her  room, 
the  Count  and  the  doctor  had  another  disagreement,  and 
this  time  the  dispute  between  them  was  of  so  serious  a  nat- 
ure that  Mr.  Dawson  left  the  house. 

I  was  not  present  at  the  time,  but  I  understood  that  the 
subject  of  dispute  was  the  amount  of  nouiishment  which  it 
was  necessary  to  give  to  assist  Miss  Hal(?oaibe"s  convales- 
cence, after  the  exhaustion  of  the  fever.  Mr.  Dawson, 
now  that  his  patient  was  safe,  was  less  inclined  than  ever 
to  submit  to  unprofessional  interference,  and  the  Count  (I 
oau  not  imagine  why)  lost  all  the  self-control  which  he  had 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  365 

•o  judiciously  piesurved  on  former  occasions,  and  taunted 
the  doctor,  over  and  over  again,  with  his  mistake  about  the 
fever,  when  it  changed  to  typhus.  Tlie  unfortunate  atfair 
ended  in  Mr.  J)awson's  a[)pealing  to  Sir  Percival,  and 
threatening  (now  that  he  could  leave  without  absolute  dan- 
ger to  Miss  Halcombe)  to  withdraw  from  his  attendance  at 
Blackwater  Park  if  the  Count's  interference  was  not  per- 
emptorily suppressed  from  that  moment.  Sir  Percival's 
reply  (thought  not  designedly  uncivil)  had  only  resulted  in 
making  matters  worse,  and  Mr.  Dawson  had  thereupon 
withdrawn  from  the  house,  in  a  state  of  extreme  indigna- 
tion at  Count  Fosco's  usage  of  him,  and  had  sent  in  his  bill 
the  next  morning. 

We  were  now,  therefore,  left  without  the  attendance  of 
a  medical  man.  Although  there  was  no  actual  necessity 
for  another  doctor — nuising  and  watching  being,  as  the 
physician  had  observed,  all  that  Miss  Halcombe  required — 
I  should  still,  if  my  authority  had  been  consulted,  have  ob- 
tained professional  assistance,  from  some  other  quarter, 
for  form's  sake. 

The  matter  did  not  seem  to  strike  Sir  Percival  in  that 
light.  He  said  it  would  be  time  enough  to  send  for  an- 
other doctor  if  Miss  Halcombe  showed  any  signs  of  a  re- 
lapse. In  the  meanwhile  we  had  the  Count  to  consult  in 
any  minor  difficulty,  and  we  need  not  unnecessarily  disturb 
our  patient,  in  her  present  weak  and  nervous  condition,  by 
the  presence  of  a  stranger  at  her  bedside.  There  was 
much  that  was  reasonable,  no  doubt,  in  these  considera- 
tions, but  they  left  me  a  little  anxious,  nevertheless.  Nor 
was  I  quite  satisfied,  in  my  own  mind,  of  the  propriety  of 
our  concealing  the  doctor's  absence,  as  we  did,  from  Lady 
Clyde.  It  was  a  merciful  deception,  I  admit — for  she  was 
in  no  state  to  bear  any  fresh  anxieties.  But  still  it  was  a 
deception,  and,  as  such,  to  a  person  of  ray  principles,  at 
best  a  doubtful  proceeding. 

A  second  perplexing  circumstance  which  happened  on 
the  same  day,  and  whit;h  took  me  completely  by  surprise, 
added  greatly  to  the  sense  of  uneasiness  that  was  now 
weighing  on  my  mind. 

I  was  sent  for  to  see  Sir  Percival  in  the  library-  The 
Count,  who  was  with  him  when  I  went  in,  immediately 
rose  and  left  us  alone  together.     Su  Percival  civilly  asked 


%6  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

me  to  take  a  seat,  and  then,  to  my  great  astonishment,  ad' 
dressed  me  in  these  terms: 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Mrs.  Michelsou,  about  a  mat- 
ter Vi^hich  I  decided  on  some  time  ago,  and  which  I  should 
have  mentioned  before  but  for  the  sickness  and  trouble  in 
the  house.  In  plain  words,  I  have  reasons  for  wishing  to 
break  up  my  establishment  immediately  at  this  place  — 
leaving  you  in  charge,  of  course,  as  usual.  As  soon  as 
Lady  Glyde  and  Miss  Halcombe  can  travel,  they  must  both 
have  change  of  air.  My  friends,  Count  Fosco  and  the 
Countess,  will  leave  us,  before  that  time,  to  live  in  the 
neighborhood  of  London.  And  1  have  reasons  for  not 
opening  the  liouse  to  any  more  company,  with  a  view  to 
economizing  as  carefully  as  I  can.  I  don't  blame  you,  but 
my  expenses  here  are  a  great  deal  too  heavy.  In  short,  I 
shall  sell  the  horses  and  get  rid  of  all  the  servants  at  once. 
1  never  do  things  by  halves,  as  you  know,  and  I  mean  to 
have  the  house  clear  of  a  pack  of  useless  people  by  this 
time  to-morrow." 

I  listened  to  him,  perfectly  aghast  with  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  mean.  Sir  Percival,  that  I  am  to  dismiss  the 
in-door  servants  under  my  charge  without  the  usual 
month's  warning?"  I  asked. 

"  Certainly,  1  do.  We  may  all  be  out  of  the  house  be- 
fore another  month,  and  I  am  not  going  to  leave  the  serv- 
ants here  in  idleness,  with  no  master  to  wait  on." 

"  Who  is  to  do  the  cooking.  Sir  Percival,  while  you  are 
still  staying  here?" 

"  Margaret  Porcher  can  roast  and  boil — keep  her.  What 
do  I  want  with  a  cook,  if  I  don't  mean  to  give  any  dinner- 
parties?" 

"  The  servant  you  have  mentioned  is  the  most  unintelli= 
gent  servant  in  the  house.  Sir  Percival — " 

"  Keep  her,  I  tell  you,  and  have  a  woman  in  from  the 
village  to  do  tlie  cleaning  and  go  away  again.  My  weekly 
expenses  must  and  shall  be  lowered  immediately.  I  don't 
send  for  you  to  make  objections,  Mrs.  Michelson — 1  send 
for  you  to  carry  out  my  plans  of  economy.  Disnaiss  the 
whole  lazy  pack  of  in-door  servants  to-morrow,  except 
Porcher.  She  is  as  strong  as  a  horse,  and  we'll  make  her 
work  like  a  horse." 

"  You  will  excuse  me  for  reminding  you.  Sir  Percival, 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  367 

that  if  the  servants  go  to-morrow  they  must  have  a 
month's  wages  in  lieu  of  a  month's  warning. " 

"  Let  them!  A  month's  wages  saves  a  month's  waste 
and  ghittony  in  the  servants'  hall." 

This  last  remark  conveyed  an  aspersion  of  the  most 
offensive  kind  on  my  management.  I  had  too  much  self- 
respect  to  defend-  myself  under  so  gross  an  imputation. 
Christian  consideration  for  the  helpless  position  of  Miss 
Halcombe  and  Lady  Glyde,  and  for  the  serious  inconvein- 
ence  which  my  sudden  absence  might  inflict  on  them,  alone 
prevented  me  from  resigning  my  situation  on  the  spot.  1 
rose  immediately.  It  would  have  lowered  me  in  my  own 
estimation  to  have  permitted  the  interview  to  continue  a 
moment  longer, 

"  After  that  last  remark.  Sir  Percival,  I  have  nothing 
more  to  say.  Your  directions  shall  be  attended  to." 
Pronouncing  those  words.  I  bowed  my  head  with  the  most 
distant  respect,  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

The  next  day  the  servants  left  in  a  body.  Sir  Percival 
himself  dismissed  the  grooms  and  stablemen,  sending  them, 
with  all  the  horses  but  one,  to  London.  Of  the  whole  do- 
mestic establishment,  in-doors  and  out,  there  now  remained 
only  myself,  Margaret  Porcher,  and  the  gardener,  this  last 
living  in  his  own  cottage,  and  being  wanted  to  take  care  of 
the  one  horse  that  remained  in  the  stables. 

With  the  house  left  in  this  strange  and  lonely  condition; 
with  the  mistress  of  it  ill  in  her  room;  with  Miss  Halcombe 
still  as  helpless  as  a  child;  and  with  the  doctor's  attend- 
ance withdrawn  from  us  in  enmity — it  was  surely  not  un- 
natural that  my  spirits  should  sink,  and  my  customary 
composure  be  very  hard  to  maintain.  My  mind  was  ill  at 
ease.  I  wished  the  poor  ladies  both  well  again,  and  I 
wished  myself  away  from  Blackwater  Park. 


IL 


The  next  event  that  occurred  was  of  so  singular  a  nature 
that  it  might  have  caused  me  a  feeling  of  superstitious  sur- 
prise, if  my  mind  had  not  been  fortified  by  principle  against 
any  pagan  weakness  of  that  sort.  The  uneasy  sense  of 
something  wrong  in  the  family  which  had  made  me  wisi? 
myself  away  from  Blackwater  Park  was  actually  followed. 


368  THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

strange  to  say,  by  my  departure  from  the  bouse.  It  is 
true  that  my  abseuce  was  for  a  temporary  period  ouly,  but 
the  coincidence  was,  in  my  opinion,  not  the  less  remarka- 
ble on  that  account. 

My  departure  took  place  under  the  following  circum- 
stances: 

A  day  or  two  after  the  servants  all  left,  I  was  again  sent 
for  to  see  Sir  Percival.  The  undeserved  slur  which  he  had 
cast  on  my  manageniLiit  oi'  the  household  did  not,  I  am 
happy  to  say,  prevent  me  from  returning  good  for  evil  to 
the  best  of  my  abilit)-,  by  complying  with  his  request  as 
readily  and  respectfully  as  ever,  ll  cost  me  a  struggle 
with  that  fallen  nature  which  we  all  share  in  common,  be- 
fore I  could  suppress  my  feelings.  Being  accustomed  to 
self-discipline,  1  accomplished  the  sacrifice. 

I  found  Sir  Percival  and  Count  Fosco  sitting  together, 
again.  On  this  occasion  his  lordship  remained  present  at 
the  interview,  and  assisted  in  the  development  of  Sir  Per- 
cival's  views. 

The  subject  to  which  they  now  requested  my  attention 
related  to  the  healthy  change  of  air  by  which  we  all  hoped 
that  Miss  Ilalcombe  and  Lady  Glyde  might  soon  be  en- 
abled to  profit.  Sir  Percival  mentioned  that  both  the  ladies 
would  probably  pass  the  auturr.n  (by  invitation  of  Frede- 
rick Fairlie,  Esquire),  at  Limmeridge  House,  Cumberland. 
But  before  they  went  there,  it  was  his  opinion,  confirmed 
by  Count  Fosco  (who  here  took  up  the  conversation  and 
continued  it  to  the  end),  that  they  would  benefit  by  a  short 
residence  first  in  the  genial  climate  of  Torquay.  The 
great  object,  therefore,  was  to  engage  lodgings  at  that 
place,  atfording  all  the  comforts  and  advantages  of  which 
they  stood  in  need;  and  the  great  difficulty  was  to  find  an 
experienced  person  ca|)able  of  choosing  the  sort  of  resi- 
dence which  they  warned.  In  this  emergency  the  Count 
begged  to  inquire,  on  Sir  Percival's  behalf,  whether  1 
would  object  to  give  the  ladies  the  benefit  of  my  assistance, 
by  proceeding  myself  to  Torquay  in  their  interests. 

It  was  impossible  for  a  person  in  my  situation  to  meet 
any  proposal  made  in  these  terms  with  a  positive  objec- 
tion. 

1  could  only  venture  to  represent  the  serious  inconveni- 
ence f>f  my  leavmg  Blackwater  Park  in  the  extraordinary 
Hiweuce  '^f  all  the  in-door  servants,  with  the  one  exoeptiou 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WttitE.  369 

of  Margaret  Porcher.  Bat  Sir  Percival  and  his  lordship 
declared  that  they  were  both  willing  to  [)ut  up  with  incou- 
venience  for  the  sake  of  the  invalids.  I  next  respectfully 
suggested  writing  to  an  agent  at  Torquay;  but  1  was  met 
here  by  being  reminded  of  the  imprudence  of  taking  lodg- 
ings without  first  seeing  them.  1  was  also  informed  that 
the  Countess  (who  would  otherwiso  have  gone  to  Devon- 
shire herself)  could  not,  in  Lady  Glyde's  present  condition, 
leave  her  niece,  and  that  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  had 
business  to  transact  together  which  would  oblige  them  to 
remain  at  Blackvvater  Park.  In  short,  it  was  clearly 
shown  me  that  if  1  did  not  undertake  the  errand  no  one 
else  could  be  trusted  with  it.  Under  these  circumstances, 
I  could  only  inform  Sir  Percival  that  my  services  were  at 
the  disposal  of  Miss  Halcombe  and  Lady  Glyde. 

It  was  thereupon  arranged  that  I  should  leave  the  next 
morning;  that  I  should  occupy  one  or  two  days  in  examin- 
ing all  the  most  convenient  houses  in  Torquay;  and  that  I 
should  return,  with  my  report,  as  soon  as  I  conveniently 
could.  A  memorandum  was  written  for  me  by  his  lord- 
ship, stating  the  requisites  which  the  place  I  was  sent  to 
take  must  be  found  to  possess;  and  a  note  of  the  pecuniary 
limit  assigned  to  me  was  added  by  Sir  Percival. 

My  own  idea,  on  reading  over  these  instructions,  was, 
that  no  such  residence  as  I  saw  described  could  be  found  at 
any  watering-place  in  England,  and  that,  even  if  it  could 
by  chance  be  discovered,  it  would  certainly  not  be  parted 
with  for  any  period  on  such  terms  as  I  was  permitted  to 
offer.  I  hinted  at  these  difficulties  to  both  the  gentlemen, 
but  Sir  Percival  (who  undertook  to  answer  me)  did  not  ap- 
pear to  feel  them.  It  was  not  for  me  to  dispute  the  ques- 
tion, I  said  no  more,  but  I  felt  a  very  strong  conviction 
that  the  business  on  which  I  was  sent  away  was  so  beset  by 
difficulties  that  my  errand  was  almost  hopeless  at  starting. 

Before  1  left  I  took  care  to  satisfy  myself  that  Miss  Hal- 
combe was  going  on  favorably. 

There  was  a  painful  expression  of  anxiety  in  her  face 
which  made  me  fear  that  her  mind,  on  first  recovering 
itself,  was  not  at  ease.  But  she  was  certainly  strengt hon- 
ing more  rapidly  than  1  could  have  ventured  to  anticipate, 
and  she  was  able  to  send  kind  messages  to  Lady  Clyde, 
saying  that  she  was  fast  getting  well,  and  entreating  her 
ladyship  not  to  exert  herself  again  too  soon.     1  left  her  io 


370  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

charge  of  Mrs.  Eubello,  who  was  still  as  quietly  indepen- 
dent of  every  one  else  in  the  house  as  ever.  When  I 
knocked  at  Lady  Clyde's  door,  before  going  away,  1  was 
told  that  she  was  still  sadly  weak  and  depressed,  my  in- 
formant being  the  Countess,  who  was  then  keeping  her 
company  in  her  room.  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  wave 
walking  on  the  road  to  tiie  lodge,  as  I  was  driven  by  in  the 
chaise.  1  bowed  to  them,  and  quitted  the  house,  with  not 
a  living  soul  left  in  the  servants'  offices  but  Margaret 
Porcher. 

Every  one  must  feel,  what  I  have  felt  myself  since  that 
time,  that  these  circumstances  were  more  than  unusual — 
they  were  almost  suspicious.  Let  me,  however,  say  again, 
that  it  was  impossible  for  me,  in  my  dependent  position, 
to  act  otherwise  than  1  did. 

The  result  of  my  errand  at  Torquay  was  exactly  what  I 
had  foreseen.  No  such  lodgings  as  I  was  instructed  to 
take  could  be  found  in  the  whole  place,  and  the  terms  I 
was  permitted  to  give  were  much  too  low  for  the  purpose, 
even  if  1  had  been  able  to  discover  what  I  wanted.  I  ac- 
cordingly returned  to  Black  water  Park,  and  informed  Sir 
Percival,  who  met  me  at  the  door,  that  my  journey  had 
been  taken  in  vain.  He  seemed  too  much  occupied  with 
some  other  subject  to  care  about  the  failure  of  my  errand, 
and  his  first  words  informed  me  that  even  in  the  short 
time  of  my  absence  another  remarkable  change  had  taken 
place  in  the  house. 

The  Count  and  Countess  Fosco  had  left  Blackwater  Park 
for  their  new  residence  in  St.  John's  Wood. 

I  was  not  made  aware  of  the  motive  for  this  sudden  de- 
parture— 1  was  only  told  that  the  Count  had  been  very  par- 
ticular in  leaving  his  kind  compliments  to  me.  When  1 
ventured  on  asking  Sir  Percival  whether  Lady  Clyde  had 
any  one  to  attend  to  her  comforts  in  the  absence  of  the 
Countess,  he  replied  that  she  had  Margaret  Porcher  to  wait 
on  lier,  and  he  added  that  a  woman  from  the  village  had 
been  sent  for  to  do  the  work  down-stairs. 

The  answer  really  shocked  me — there  was  such  a  glaring 
impropriety  in  permitting  an  under  house-maid  to  till  the 
place  of  confidential  attendant  on  Lady  Clyde.  I  went 
upstairs  at  once,  and  met  Margaret  on  the  bedroom  land- 
ing. Her  services  had  not  been  required  (naturally 
enough),  her  mistress  having  sufficiently  recovered  that 


THE    WOMAN'    IN    WHITE.  3M 

ruoruing  to  be  able  to  leave  hev  bed.  I  asked,  next,  after 
Miss  Haleombe,  but  I  was  answered  iu  a  slouching,  sulky 
way,  which  left  me  uo  wiser  tlian  1  was  before.  I  did  not 
choose  to  repeat  the  question,  and  jierhaps  provoke  au 
impertinent  reply.  It  was  iu  every  respect  more  becom- 
ing, to  a  person  in  my  position,  to  present  myself  immedi- 
ately in  Lady  Clyde's  room. 

I  found  that  her  ladyship  had  certainly  gained  in  health 
during  the  last  few  days.  AUhongh  still  sadly  weak  and 
nervous,  she  was  able  to  get  up  v/itliout  assistance,  and  to 
walk  slowly  about  her  room,  feeling  uo  worse  effect  from 
the  exertion  than  a  slight  sensation  of  fatigue.  She  had 
been  made  a  little  anxious  that  morning  about  Miss  flal- 
combe,  through  having  received  no  news  of  her  from  any 
one.  I  thought  this  seemed  to  imply  a  blamable  want  of 
attention  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Rubelle;  but  I  said  nothing, 
and  remained  with  Lady  Glyde,  to  assist  her  to  dress. 
When  she  was  ready,  we  both  left  the  room  together  to  go 
to  Miss  Halcombe. 

We  were  stopped  in  the  passage  by  the  appearance  of  Sir 
Percival.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  purposely  waiting 
there  to  see  us. 

"  Where  are  you  going?"  he  said  to  Lady  Glyde. 

"  To  Marian's  room,"  she  answered. 

"  It  may  spare  you  a  disappointment,"  remarked  Sir 
Percival,  "  if  I  tell  you  at  once  that  you  will  not  find  her 
there." 

"  Not  find  her  there!" 

"  No.  She  left  the  house  yesterday  morning  with  Fosco 
and  his  wife." 

Lady  Glyde  was  not  strong  enough  to  bear  the  surprise 
of  this  extraordinary  statement.  She  turned  fearfully  pale, 
and  leaned  back  against  the  wall,  looking  at  her  husband 
in  dead  silence. 

1  was  "0  astonished  myself  that  I  hardly  knew  what  to 
say.  1  asked  Sir  Percival  if  he  really  meant  that  Miss 
Halcombe  had  left  Blackwater  Park. 

"  I  certainly  mean  it,"  he  answered. 

"In  her  state,  Sir  Percival!  Without  mentioning  her 
intentions  to  Lady  Glydel" 

Before  he  could  reply,  her  ladyship  recovered  herself  a 
little,  and  spoke. 

"  Impossible!"  she  cried  outf  in  a  loud,  frightened  man- 


3!^2  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

nev,  taking  a  step  or  two  forward  from  the  wall.  "  Whero 
was  the  doctor?  where  was  Mi\  Dawsou  when  Mariau  weut 
away?" 

"  Mr.  Dawsou  wasn't  wanted,  and  wasn't  here,"  said 
Sir  Percival.  "  He  left  of  his  own  accord,  which  is  enough 
of  itself  to  show  that  she  was  strong  enough  to  travel. 
How  yoLi  stare!  If  you  don't  believe  she  has  gone,  look 
for  yourself.  Open  her  room  door,  and  all  the  other  room 
doors,  if  you  like." 

She  took  him  at  his  word,  and  I  followed  her.  There 
was  no  one  in  Miss  Halcombe's  room  but  Margaret  Porchcr, 
who  was  busy  setting  it  to  rights.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
spare  rooms,  or  the  dressing-rooms,  when  we  looked  into 
tliem  afterward.  Sir  Percival  still  waited  for  ns  in  the  pas- 
sage. As  we  were  leaving  the  last  room  that  we  had  ex- 
amined. Lady  Glyde  whispered,  "  Don't  go,  Mrs.  Michel- 
son!  don't  leave  me,  for  God's  sake!"  Before  1  could  say 
anything  in  return,  she  was  out  again  in  the  passage, 
s^jeaking  to  her  husband. 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Sir  Percival?  I  insist — I  beg  and 
pray  you  will  tell  me  what  it  means?" 

"  It  means,"  he  answered,  "  that  Miss  Halcombe  was 
strong  enough  yesterday  morning  to  sit  up  and  be  dressed, 
and  that  she  insisted  on  taking  advantage  of  Fosco's  going 
to  London,  to  go  there  too." 

"To  London!" 

"  Yes — on  her  way  to  Limmeridge." 

Lady  Glyde  turned,  and  appealed  to  me. 

"You  saw  Miss  Halcombe  last,"  she  said.  "Tell  me 
plainly,  Mrs.  MichelsoD,  did  you  think  she  looked  fit  to 
travel?" 

"  Not  in  mif  opinion,  your  ladyship." 

Sir  Percival,  0!i  his  side,  instantly  turned,  and  appealed 
to  mo  also. 

"  Before  you  went  away,"  he  said,  "  did  you,  or  did 
you  not,  tell  the  nuise  that  Miss  Halcombe  looked  much 
stronger  and  better?" 

"  I  certainly  made  tiie  remark,  Sir  Percival." 

He  addressed  her  ladyship  again,  the  moment  I  offered 
that  reply. 

"  Set  one  of  Mrs.  Michelson's  opinions  fairly  against  the 
other,"  he  said,  "  and  try  to  be  reasonable  about  a  perfect- 
ly plain  matter.     If  she  had  not  been  well  enough  to  be 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  373 

aioveel,  do  you  think  we  should  any  of  us  have  risked  let- 
ti]ig  her  go?  She  has  got  three  competent  people  to  look 
after  her — Fosco  and  your  aunt,  and  Mrs.  Kubelle,  who 
went  away  with  them  expressly  for  that,  purpose.  Thej 
took  a  whole  carriage  yesterday,  and  made  a  bed  for  her  on 
the  seat,  in  case  she  felt  tired.  To-day  Fosco  and  Mrs. 
Eubelle  go  on  with  her  themselves  to  Cumberland — " 

"  Why  does  Marian  go  to  Limmeridge,  and  leave  me 
here  by  myself?"  said  her  ladyship,  interrupting  Sir  Per- 
cival. 

"  Because  your  uncle  won't  receive  you  till  he  has  seen 
your  sister  first,"  he  replied.  "  Have  you  forgotten  the 
letter  he  wrote  to  her,  at  the  beginning  of  her  illness?  It 
was  shown  to  you;  you  read  it  yourself;  and  you  ought  to 
remember  it." 

"  I  do  remember  it." 

"  If  you  do,  why  should  you  be  surprised  at  her  leavmg 
you?  You  want  to  be  back  at  Limmeridge,  and  she  has 
gone  there  to  get  your  uncle's  leave  for  you,  on  his  own 
terms." 

Poor  Lady  Clyde's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Marian  never  left  me  before,"  she  said,  "  without  bid- 
ding me  good-bye." 

"  She  would  have  bid  you  good-bye  this  time,"  returned 
Sir  Percival,  "  if  she  had  not  been  afraid  of  herself  and  of 
you  She  knew  you  would  try  to  stoj)  her;  she  knew  you 
would  distress  her  by  crying.  Do  you  want  to  make  any 
more  objections?  If  you  do,  you  must  come  down-stairs 
and  ask  questions  in  the  dining-room.  These  worries  up- 
set me.     1  want  a  glass  of  wine." 

He  left  us  suddenly. 

His  manner  all  through  this  strange  conversation  had 
been  very  unlike  what  it  usually  was.  He  seemed  to  be 
almost  as  nervous  and  fluttered,  every  now  and  then,  as  his 
lady  herself.  I  should  never  have  supposed  that  his  health 
had  been  so  delicate,  or  his  composure  so  easy  to  upset. 

1  tried  to  prevail  on  Lady  Clyde  to  go  back  to  her  room; 
but  it  was  useless.  She  stopped  in  the  passage,  with  the 
look  of  a  woman  whose  mind  was  panic-stricken. 

"  Something  has  happened  to  my  sister!"  she  said. 

"  Remember,  my  lady,  what  surprising  energy  there  is 
in  Miss  Halcombe,"  J  snggestfd.  "  S'ne  might  well  make 
an  effort  which  other  ladies,  iu  her  situatiou,  would  be  uu- 


374  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

fit  for.  I  hope  and  believe  there  is  nothing  wrong— I  do 
indeed." 

"  1  must  follow  Marian,"  said  her  ladyship,  with  the 
s;inie  panic-stricken  look.  "  1  must  go  where  she  has  gone; 
I  must  see  that  she  is  alive  and  well  with  my  own  eyes. 
Corns!  come  down  with  me  to  Sir  Percival." 

I  hesitated,  fearing  that  my  presence  might  be  considered 
an  intrusion.  1  attempted  to  represent  this  to  her  lady- 
ship; but  she  was  deaf  to  me.  She  held  my  arm  fast 
enough  to  force  me  to  go  down-stairs  with  her,  and  she  still 
clung  to  me  with  all  the  little  strength  she  had  at  the  mo- 
ment when  1  opened  the  dining-room  door. 

Sir  Percival  was  sitting  at  the  table  with  a  decanter  of 
wine  before  him.  Pie  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips  as  we 
went  in  and  drained  it  at  a  draught.  Seeing  that  he  looked 
at  me  angrily  when  he  put  it  down  again,  I  attempted  to 
make  some  apology  for  my  accidental  presence  in  the 
room, 

"  Do  you  suppose  there  are  any  secrets  going  on  here?" 
he  broke  out,  suddenly;  "  there  are  none — there  is  noth- 
ing underhand,  nothing  kept  from  you  or  from  any  one." 
After  speaking  those  strange  words,  loudly  and  sternly,  he 
tilled  himself  ajiother  glass  of  wine,  and  asked  Lady  Glyde 
wliat  she  wanted  of  him. 

"If  my  sister  is  fit  to  travel,  I  am  fit  to  travel,"  said 
her  ladyship,  with  more  firmness  than  she  had  yet  shown. 
"  I  come  to  beg  you  will  make  allowances  for  my  anxiety 
about  Marian,  and  let  me  follow  her  at  once  by  the  after- 
noon train." 

"  You  must  wait  till  to-morrow,"  replied  Sir  Percival, 
"  and  then,  if  you  don't  hear  to  the  contrary,  you  can  go. 
1  don't  suppose  you  are  at  all  likely  to  hear  to  the  contrary, 
so  I  shall  write  to  Fosco  by  to-night's  post.'" 

He  said  those  last  words  holding  his  glass  up  to  the 
light,  and  looking  at  the  wine  in  it,  instead  of  at  Lady 
Glyde.  Indeed,  he  never  once  looked  at  her  throughout 
the  conversation.  Such  a  singular  want  of  good-breeding 
in  a  gentleman  of  his  rank  impressed  me,  1  own,  very 
painfully. 

"  Why  should  you  write  to  Count  Fosco?"  she  asked,  in 
extreme  surprise. 

"  To  tell  him  to  expect  you  by- the  midday  train,"  said 
^Sir  Percival.    "  Ho  will  meet  you  at  the  station,  when  you 


THE    WOMAN    IN    AVHITE.  375 

get  to  London,  and  take  you  on  to  sleep  at  your  aunt's,  in 
St.  John's  Wood." 

Lady  Glyde's  hand  began  to  tremble  violently  round  my 
arm — why,  I  could  not  imagine. 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  Count  Fosco  to  meet  me," 
she  said.     "  I  would  rather  not  stay  in  Loudon  to  sleep." 

"  You  must.  You  can't  take  the  whole  journey  to 
Cumberland  in  one  day.  You  must  rest  a  night  in  Lon- 
don, and  I  don't  choose  you  to  go  by  yourself  to  a  hotel. 
Fosco  made  the  offer  to  your  uncle  to  give  you  house-room 
on  the  way  down,  and  your  uncle  has  accepted  it.  Here! 
here  is  a  letter  from  him,  addressed  to  yourself.  I  ought 
to  have  sent  it  up  this  morning,  but  1  forgot.  Eead  it, 
and  see  what  Mr.  Fairlie  himself  says  to  you." 

Lady  Clyde  looked  at  the  iatter  for  a  moment,  and  then 
placed  it  in  my  hands. 

"  Eead  it,"  she  said,  faintly.  "  I  don't  know  what  is 
the  matter  with  me.     1  can't  read  it  myself." 

It  was  a  note  of  only  four  lines — so  short  and  so  careless 
that  it  quite  struck  me.  If  I  remember  correctly,  it  con- 
Kined  no  more  than  these  words; 

"  Dearest  Laura, — Please  come  whenever  you  like. 
Break  the  journey  by  sleeping  at  your  aunt's  house. 
Grieved  to  hear  of  dear  Marian's  illness.  Affectionately 
yours,  Frederick  Fairlie." 

"  I  would  rather  not  go  there — I  would  rather  not  stay 
a  night  in  London,"  said  her  ladyship,  breaking  out  eager- 
ly with  those  words  before  I  had  quite  done  reading  the 
note,  short  as  it  was.  "  Don't  write  to  Count  Fosco! 
Pray,  pray  don't  write  to  him." 

Sir  Percival  filled  another  glass  from  the  decanter,  so 
awkwardly  that  he  upset  it,  and  spilled  all  the  wine  over 
the  table.  "  My  sight  seems  to  be  failing  me,"  he  mut- 
tered to  himself,  in  an  odd,  muffled  voice.  He  slowly  set 
the  glass  up  again,  refilled  it,  and  drained  it  once  more  at 
a  draught.  I  began  to  fear,  from  his  look  and  manner;, 
that  the  wine  was  getting  into  his  head. 

"  Pray,  don't  write  to  Count  Fosco!"  persisted  Lady 
Clyde,  more  earnestly  than  ever. 

"  Why  not,  I  should  like  to  know?"  cried  Sir  Percival, 
with  a  sudden  burst  of  anger  that  startled  us  both. 
"  Where  can  you  stay  more  properly  in  London  than  at 


376  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

the  place  your  uiicle  himself  chooses  for  you — at  your 
aunt's  house?     Ask  Mrs.  Michelson/' 

The  arrangement  proposed  was  so  unquestionably  the 
right  and  the  proper  one  that  1  could  make  no  possible  ob- 
jection to  it.  Much  as  1  sympathized  with  Lady  Glyde  iu 
other  respects,  I  could  not  sympathize  with  her  in  her  un- 
just prejudices  against  Count  Fosco.  1  never  before  met 
with  any  lady  of  her  rank  and  station  who  was  so  lamenta- 
bly narrow-minded  on  the  subject  of  foreigners.  Neither 
her  uncle's  note  nor  Sir  Percival's  increasing  impatience 
seemed  to  have  the  least  effect  on  her.  She  still  objected" 
to  staying  a  night  in  London;  she  still  irot)lored  her  hus- 
band not  to  write  to  the  Count. 

"  Drop  it!"  said  Sir  Percival,  rudely  turning  his  back  on 
us.  "  If  you  haven't  sense  enough  to  know  what  is  best 
for  yourself,  other  people  must  know  for  you.  The 
arrangement  is  made,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it.  You  are 
only  wanted  to  do  what  Miss  Halcombe  has  done  before 
you-" 

"  Marian?"  repeated  her  ladyship,  in  a  bewildered  man- 
ner; "  Marian  sleeping  in  Count  Fosco's  house!" 

"  Yes,  in  Count  Fosco's  house.  She  slept  there  last 
night,  to  break  the  journey.  And  you  are  to  follow  her 
example,  and  do  what  your  uncle  tells  you.  You  are  to 
sleep  at  Fosco's  to-morrow  night,  as  your  sister  did,  to 
break  the  journey.  Don't  throw  too  many  obstacles  in  my 
way!  don't  make  me  repent  of  letting  you  go  at  all!" 

He  started  to  his  feet,  and  suddenly  v/alked  out  into  the 
veranda,  through  the  open  glass  doors. 

"  Will  your  ladyship  excuse  me,"  I  whispered,  "  if  I 
suggest  that  we  had  better  not  wait  here  till  Sir  Percival 
comes  back?  I  am  very  much  afraid  he  is  overexcited 
with  wine." 

She  consented  to  leave  the  room,  in  a  weary,  absent 
manner. 

As  soon  as  we  were  safe  upstairs  again,  I  did  all  I  could 
to  compose  her  ladyship's  spirits.  1  reminded  her  that 
Mr.  Fairlie's  letters  to  Miss  Halcombe  and  to  herself  did 
certainly  sanction,  and  even  render  necessary,  sooner  or 
later,  the  course  that  had  been  taken.  She  agreed  to  this, 
and  even  admitted,  of  her  own  accord,  that  both  letters 
were  strictly  in  character  with  her  uncle's  peculiar  dispo- 
sition— but  her  fears  about  Miss  Halcombe,  and  her  uuac* 


THE    WOMAN    IN    V/HITE.  37? 

countable  dread  of  sleeping  at  the  Count's  house  in 
London,  still  remained  unshaken,  in  spite  of  every  consid- 
eration that  1  could  urge.  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  protest 
against  Lady  Glyde's  unfavorable  opinion  of  his  lordship, 
and  I  did  so  with  becoming  forbearance  and  respect. 

"  Your  ladyship  will  pardon  my  freedom,"  I  remarked, 
in  conclusion;  "  but  it  is  said,  '  by  their  fruits  ye  shall 
know  them.'  1  am  sure  the  Count's  constant  kindness 
and  constant  attention  from  the  very  beginning  of  Miss 
Halcombe's  illness  merit  our  best  confidence  and  esteem. 
Even  his  lordship's  serious  misunderstanding  with  Mr. 
Dawson  was  entirely  attributable  to  his  anxiety  on  Miss 
Halcombe's  account." 

"  What  misunderstanding?''  inquired  her  ladyship,  with 
a  look  of  sudden  interest. 

I  related  the  unhappy  circumstances  under  which  Mr. 
Dawson  had  withdrawn  his  attendance — mentioning  them 
all  the  more  readily  because  I  disapproved  of  Sir  Percival's 
continuing  to  conceal  what  had  happened  (as  he  had  done 
in  my  jDresence)  from  the  knowledge  of  Lady  Glyde. 

Her  ladyship  started  up  with  every  appearance  of  being 
additionally  agitated  and  alarmed  by  what  I  had  told  her. 

"  Worse!  worse  than  I  thought!"  she  said,  walking 
about  the  room  in  a  bewildered  manner.  "  The  Count 
knew  Mr.  Dawson  would  never  consent  to  Marian's  taking 
a  journey — he  purposely  insulted  the  doctor,  to  get  him 
out  of  the  house." 

"  Oh,  my  lady!  my  lady!"  1  remonstrated. 

"Mrs.  Michelson!"  she  went  on,  vehemently,  "no 
words  that  ever  were  spoken  will  persuade  me  that  my  sis- 
ter is  in  that  man's  power  and  in  that  man's  house  with 
her  own  consent.  My  horror  of  him  is  such  that  nothing 
Sir  Percjival  could  say,  and  no  letters  my  uncle  could  write, 
would  induce  me,  if  I  had  only  my  own  feelings  to  con- 
sult, to  eat,  drink,  or  sleep  under  his  roof.  But  my  misery 
of  suspense  about  Marian  gives  me  the  courage  to  follow 
hfr  anywhere  —  to  follow  lier  even  into  Count  Fosco's 
house." 

1  thought  it  right,  at  this  point,  to  mention  that  Miss 
Halcombe  had  already  gone  on  to  C'umberlaud,  according 
to  Sir  Percival's  account  of  the  matter. 

"  I  am  afraid  to  believe  il!"  answered  her  ladyship.  "  I 
ftm  afraid  she  is  still  in  that  man's  huuse.     If  1  am  wrong 


378  THE    W05IAN    IN    WHITE. 

— if  she  has  really  gone  on  to  Limmeridge — I  am  resolved 
1  will  not  sleep  to-morrow  night  under  Count  Fosco's  rool 
My  dearest  friend  in  the  world,  next  to  my  sister,  lives 
near  London.  You  have  heard  me,  you  have  heard  Miss 
Haloombe,  speak  of  Mrs.  Vesey?  I  mean  to  write,  and 
propose  to  sleep  at  her  house.  1  don't  know  how  I  shall 
get  there — I  don't  know  how  I  shall  avoid  the  Count — but 
to  that  refuge  I  will  escape  in  some  way,  if  my  sister  has 
gone  to  Cumberland.  All  I  ask  of  you  to  do  is  to  see 
yourself  that  my  letter  to  Mrs.  Vesey  goes  to  London  to- 
night as  certainly  as  Sir  Percival's  letter  goes  to  Count 
Fosco.  I  h?  .d  reasons  for  not  trusting  the  post-bag  down- 
stairs. Will  you  keep  my  secret,  and  help  me  in  this?  i^- 
is  the  last  favor,  perhaps,  that  I  shall  ever  ask  of  you. " 

I  hesitated — I  thought  it  all  very  strange — 1  almost 
feared  that  her  ladyship's  mind  had  been  a  little  affected 
by  recent  anxiety  and  suffering.  At  my  own  risk,  how- 
ever, 1  ended  by  giving  my  consent.  If  the  letter  had  been 
addressed  to  a  stranger,  or  to  any  one  but  a  lady  so  well 
known  to  me  by  report  as  Mrs.  Vesey,  I  might  have  re- 
fused. I  thank  God — looking  to  what  happened  after- 
ward— I  thank  God  1  never  thwarted  that  wish,  or  any 
other,  which  Lady  Glyde  expressed  to  me  on  the  last  day 
of  her  residence  at  Blackwater  Park. 

The  letter  was  written,  and  given  into  my  hands.  I 
myself  put  it  into  the  post-box  in  the  village  that  evening. 

We  saw  nothing  more  of  Sir  Percival  for  the  rest  of  the 
day. 

1  slept,  by  Lady  Clyde's  own  desire,  in  the  next  room  to 
hers,  with  the  door  open  between  us.  There  was  some- 
thing so  strange  and  dreadful  in  the  loneliness  and  empti- 
ness of  the  house  that  1  was  glad,  on  my  side,  to  have  a 
companion  near  me.  Her  ladyship  sat  up  late,  reading 
letters  and  burning  them,  and  emptying  her  drawers  and 
cabinets  of  little  things  she  prized,  as  if  she  never  expected 
to  return  to  Blackwater  Park.  Her  sleep  was  sadly  dis- 
turbed when  she  at  last  went  to  bed;  she  cried  out  in  it 
several  times — cnce  so  loud  that  she  woke  herself.  What- 
ever her  dreams  were,  she  did  not  think  fit  to  communi- 
cate them  to  me.  Perhaps,  in  my  situation,  1  had  no 
right  to  expect  that  she  should  do  so.  It  matters  little 
now.  I  was  sorry  for  he-:  -I  was  indeed  heartily  sorry  for 
her  all  the  samt. 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  379 

The  next  day  was  fine  and  sunny.  Sir  Percival  came 
up,  after  breakfast,  to  tell  us  that  the  chaise  would  be  at 
the  door  at  a  quarter  to  twelve,  the  train  to  London  stop- 
piug  at  our  station  at  twenty  minutes  after.  He  informed 
Lady  Glyde  that  he  was  obliged  to  go  out,  but  added  that 
he  hoped  to  be  back  before  she  left.  If  any  unforeseen 
accident  delayed  him,  1  was  to  accompany  her  to  the  sta- 
tion, and  to  take  special  care  that  she  was  in  time  for  the 
tram.  Sir  Percival  comnumicated  these  directions  very 
hastily,  walking  here  and  there  about  the  room  all  the 
time.  Her  ladyship  looked  attentively  after  him,  wherever 
he  went.     He  never  once  looked  at  her  in  return. 

She  only  spoke  when  he  had  done,  and  then  she  stopped 
him  as  he  ajjproached  the  door,  by  holding  out  her  hand. 

"  I  shall  see  you  no  more,''  she  said,  in  a  very  marked 
manner.  "  This  is  our  parting — our  parting  it  may  be, 
forever.  Will  you  try  to  forgive  me,  Percival,  as  heartily 
as  I  forgive  yoit  ?" 

His  face  turned  of  an  awful  whiteness  all  over,  and  great 
6eads  of  perspiration  broke  out  on  his  bald  forehead.  "  I 
shall  come  back,"  he  said,  and  made  for  the  door  as  hastily 
as  if  his  wife's  farewell  words  had  frightened  him  out  of 
the  room. 

1  had  never  liked  Sir  Percival,  but  the  manner  in  which 
he  left  Lady  Glyde  made  me  feel  ashamed  of  having  eaten 
his  bread  and  lived  in  his  service.  I  thought  of  saying  a 
few  comforting  and  Christian  words  to  the  poor  lady,  but 
there  was  something  in  her  face,  as  she  looked  after  her 
husband  when  the  door  closed  on  him,  that  made  me  alter 
my  mind  and  keep  silence. 

At  the  time  named  the  chaise  drew  up  at  the  gates.  Her 
ladyship  was  right  —  Sir  Percival  never  came  bj»ck.  1 
waited  for  him  till  the  last  moment — and  waited  in  ^ain. 

No  positive  responsibility  lay  on  my  shoulders,  and  yet  I 
did  not  feel  easy  in  my  mind.  "  It  is  of  your  own  free 
will,  I  said,  as  the  chaise  drove  through  the  lodge  gates, 
"  that  your  ladyship  goes  to  London?" 

"  I  will  go  anywhere,"  she  answered,  "  to  end  the  dread- 
ful suspense  that  I  am  suffering  at  this  moment. " 

She  had  made  me  feel  almost  as  anxious  and  as  uncer- 
tain about  Miss  Halcombe  as  she  felt  herself.  1  presumed 
to  ask  her  to  write  me  a  line,  if  all  went  well  in  London, 
She  answered,  "Most  willingly,  Mrs.  Micheison."     "We 


•380  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

all  have  our  crosses  to  bear,  my  lady,"  I  said,  seeing  her 
silent  and  thoughtfnl,  after  she  had  promised  to  writ^j. 
She  made  no  reply:  she  seemed  to  be  too  much  wrapped 
up  ill  her  own  thoughts  to  attend  to  me.  "1  fear  your 
ladyship  rested  bailly  last  night/'  I  remarked,  after  wait- 
ing a  little.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  1  was  terribly  disturbed 
by  dreams."  "Indeed,  my  lady?"  I  thought  she  was 
going  to  tell  me  her  dreams;  but  nn,  when  slie  spoke  next 
it  was  only  to  ask  a  question.  "  You  posted  the  letter  to 
Mrs.  Yesey  with  your  own  hands?"     "  Yes,  my  lady." 

"  Did  Sir  Percival  say,  yes^terday,  that  the  Count  Fosco 
was  to  meet  me  at  the  terminus  in  Ij^Midou?"  "  He  did, 
my  lady." 

She  sighed  heavily  when  1  answered  that  last  question, 
and  said  no  more. 

We  arrived  at  the  station,  with  hardly  two  minutes  to 
spare.  The  gardener  (who  had  driven  us)  managed  about 
the  luggage,  while  1  took  the  ticket.  The  whistle  of  the 
train  was  sounding  when  I  joined  her  ladyship  on  the  plat- 
form. She  looked  very  strangely,  and  pressed  her  hand 
over  her  heart,  as  if  some  sudden  pain  or  fright  had  over- 
come her  at  that  moment. 

"  I  wish  you  were  going  with  me!"  she  said,  catching 
eagerly  at  my  arm  when  I  gave  her  the  ticket. 

If  there  had  been  time,  if  1  had  felt  the  day  before  as  1 
felt  then,  I  would  have  made  my  arrangements  to  accom- 
pany her,  even  though  the  doing  so  had  obliged  me  to  give 
Sir  Percival  warning  on  the  spot.  As  it  was,  her  wishes 
expressed  at  the  last  moment  only  were  expressed  too  late 
for  me  to  comply  with  them.  She  seemed  to  understand 
this  herself  before  I  could  explain  it,  and  did  not  repeat 
her  desire  to  have  me  for  a  traveling  companion.  The 
train  drew  up  at  the  platform.  She  gave  the  gardener  a 
present  for  his  children,  and  took  my  hand,  in  her  simple, 
hearty  manner,  before  she  got  into  the  carriage. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me  and  to  my  sister,"  she 
said — "  kind  when  we  were  both  friendless.  I  shall  re- 
member you  gratefully  as  long  as  I  live  to  remember  any 
one.     Good-bye — and  God  bless  you!" 

She  spoke  those  words  with  a  tone  and  a  look  which 
brought  the  tears  into  my  eyes — she  spoke  them  as  if  she 
was  bidding  me  farewell  forever. 

*'  Good-bye,  my  lady,"  I  said,  putting  her  into  the  car- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  381 

riage,  and  trying  to  elieer  her;  "  good-bvi',  for  the  present 
only;  good-bye,  with  my  best  and  liindest  wishes  for  hap- 
pier times!" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  shuddered  as  she  settled  herself 
in  the  carriage.  The  guard  closed  the  door.  "Do  you 
believe  in  dreams?"  she  whispered  to  me,  at  the  window. 
"  My  dreams,  last  night,  wore  dreams  I  have  never  had 
before.  The  terror  of  them  is  hanging  over  me  still." 
The  whistle  sounded  before  I  could  answer,  and  the  train" 
moved.  Her  pale,  quiet  face  looked  at  me  for  the  last 
time,  looked  sorrowfully  and  solemnly  from  the  window. 
She  waved  her  hand— and  I  saw  her  no  more. 

Toward  five  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  that  same  day, 
having  a  little  time  to  myself  in  the  midst  of  the  household 
duties  which  now  pressed  upon  me,  I  sat  down  alone  in 
my  own  room,  to  try  and  compose  my  mind  with  the  vol- 
ume of  my  husband's  Sermons.  For  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  1  found  my  attention  wandering  over  those  pious  and 
cheering  words.  Concluding  that  Lady  Clyde's  departure 
must  have  disturbed  me  far  more  seriously  than  I  had  my- 
self supposed,  I  put  the  book  aside,  and  went  out  to  take  a 
turn  in  the  garden.  Sir  Percival  had  not  yet  returned,  to 
my  knowledge;  so  I  could  feel  no  hesitation  about  showing 
myself  in  the  grounds. 

On  turning  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  gaining  a  view 
of  the  garden,  1  was  startled  by  seeing  a  stranger  walking 
in  it.  The  stranger  was  a  woman— she  was  lounging  along 
the  path,  with  her  back  to  me,  and  was  gathering  the 
flowers. 

As  I  approached,  she  heard  me,  and  turned  round. 

My  blood  curdled  in  my  veins.  The  strange  woman  in 
the  garden  was  Mrs.  Eubelle! 

I  could  neither  move  nor  speak.  She  came  up  to  me  as 
composedly  as  ever,  with  her  flowers  in  her  hand. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  ma'am?"  she  said,  quietlv. 

"  You  here!"  I  gasped  out.  "Not  gone  to  London! 
iSiot  gone  to  Cumberland!" 

Mrs.  Rubelle  smelled  at  her  Rowers  with  a  smile  of 
malicious  pity. 

"  Certainly  not,"  she  said.  "  1  have  never  left  Black- 
water  Park." 


333  Trff.     nOilAN    IN    WHITE. 

I  summoned  breath  enough  and  courage  enough  for  an- 
other question. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Halcombe?'* 

Mrs.  Rubelle  fairly  laughed  at  me  this  time,  and  replied 
in  these  words: 

"  Miss  Halcombe,  ma'am,  has  not  left  Blackwater  Park, 
«ither. " 

When  1  heard  that  astounding  answer,  all  my  thoughts 
were  startled  back  on  the  instant  to  my  parting  with  Lady 
Griyde.  1  can  hardly  say  1  reproached  myself,  but  at  that 
moment  1  think  I  wouki  have  given  many  a  year's  hard 
savings  to  have  known  four  hours  earlier  what  I  knew 
now. 

Mrs.  Rubelle  waited,  quietly  arranging  her  nosegay,  as 
if  she  expected  me  to  say  something. 

1  could  say  nothing.  J  thought  of  Lady  Glyde's  worn- 
out  energies  and  weakly  health,  and  I  trembled  for  the 
time  when  the  shock  of  the  discovery  that  1  had  made 
would  fall  on  her.  For  a  minute  or  more  my  fears  for  the 
poor  ladies  silenced  me.  At  the  end  of  that  time  Mrs. 
Rubelle  looked  up  sideways  from  her  flowers,  and  said, 
*'  Here  is  Sir  Percival,  ma'am,  returned  from  his  ride." 

1  saw  him  as  soon  as  she  did.  He  came  toward  us, 
slashing  viciously  at  the  flowers  with  his  riding-whip. 
When  he  was  near  enough  to  see  my  face  he  stopped, 
struck  at  his  boot  with  the  whip,  and  burst  out  laughing, 
so  harshly  and  so  violently  that  the  birds  flew  away, 
startled,  from  the  iree  by  which  he  stood. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Michelson,"  he  said,  "you  have  found  't 
out  at  last,  have  you?" 

I  made  no  reply.      He  turned  to  Mrs.  Rubelle. 

"  When  did  you  show  yourself  in  the  garden?" 

"  1  showed  myself  about  half  an  hour  ago,  sir.  You 
said  I  might  take  my  liberty  again  as  soon  as  Lady  Glyde 
had  gone  away  to  London." 

"  Quite  right.  I  don't  blame  you — I  only  asked  the 
question."  He  waited  a  moment,  and  then  addressed  him- 
self once  more  to  me.  "  You  can't  believe  it,  can  you?" 
he  said,  mockingly.  "  Here!  come  along,  and  see  for 
yourself." 

He  led  the  way  round  to  the  front  of  the  house.  1  fol- 
lowed him,  and  Mrs.  Rubelle  followed  me.     After  passing 


THE    WOAf>>r    IN    WHITE.  383 

through  the  iron  gates,  he  stopped,  and  pointed  with  Ifis 
whip  to  the  disused  middle  wing  of  the  building. 

"  There!"  he  said.  "  Look  up  at  the  Qrst  lloor.  "i'ou 
knosv  the  old  Elizabethan  bedrooms?  Miss  TIalcombe  is 
snug  and  safe  in  one  of  the  best  of  them  at  this  moment. 
Take  her  in,  Mrs.  Rubelle  (you  have  got  your  key?);  take 
Mrs.  Michelson  in,  and  let  her  own  eyes  satisfy  her  that 
there  is  no  deception  this  time.'' 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  to  me,  and  the  minute  or 
two  that  had  passed  since  we  left  the  garden,  helped  me  to 
recover  my  spirits  a  little.  What  I  might  have  done  at 
this  critical  moment,  if  all  my  life  had  been  passed  in  serv- 
ice, I  can  not  say.  As  it  was,  possessing  the  feelings,  the 
principles,  and  the  bringing-up  of  a  lady,  1  could  not  hesi- 
tate about  the  right  course  to  pursue.  My  duty  to  myself 
and  my  duty  to  Lady  Glyde  alike  forbade  me  to  remain  in 
the  employment  of  a  man  who  had  shamefully  deceived  us 
both  by  a  series  of  atrocious  falsehoods. 

"  I  must  beg  permission.  Sir  Perciva!,  to  speak  a  few 
words  to  you  in  private,"  I  said.  "  Having  done  so,  I 
shall  be  ready  to  proceed  with  this  person  to  Miss  Hai- 
combe's  room." 

Mrs.  Rubelle,  whom  1  had  indicated  by  a  slight  turn  of 
my  head,  insolently  sniffed  at  her  nosegay,  and  walked 
away,  with  great  deliberation,  toward  the  house  door. 

"  Well,"  said  Sir  Percival,  sharply;  "  what  is  it  now?" 

"  I  wish  to  mention,  sir,  that  I  am  desirous  of  resigning 
the  situation  I  now  hold  at  Blackwater  Park."  That  was 
literally  how  I  put  it.  I  was  resolved  that  the  first  words 
spoken  in  his  presence  should  be  words  which  expressed 
my  intention  to  leave  his  service. 

He  eyed  me  with  one  of  his  blackest  looks,  and  thrust 
his  hands  savagely  into  the  pockets  of  his  riding-coat. 

"  Why?"  he  said;  "  why,  I  should  like  to  know?" 

"  It  is  not  for  me,  Sir  Percival,  to  express  an  opinion  on 
what  has  taken  place  in  this  house.  I  desire  to  give  no 
offense.  1  merely  wish  to  say  that  I  do  not  feel  it  consist- 
ent with  my  duty  to  Lady  Glyde  and  to  myself  to  remain 
any  longer  in  your  service." 

"  Is  it  consistent  with  your  duty  to  me  to  stand  there 
casting  suspicion  on  me  to  my  face?"  he  broke  out,  in  his 
most  violent  manner.  "  I  see  what  you're  driving  at. 
You  have  taken  your  own  mean,  underhand  view  of  an 


384  THE    WOMAK    IN    WHITE. 

iniioceut  deception  practiced  on  Latl\'  Glyde  for  her  own 
good.  It  was  essential  to  her  health  that  she  should  have 
a  change  of  air  immediately,  and  you  know  as  well  as  I  do 
she  would  never  have  gone  away  if  she  had  been  told  Miss 
Halcombe  was  still  left  here.  She  has  been  deceived  in 
her  own  interests,  and  1  don't  care  who  knows  it.  Go,  if 
you  like — there  are  plenty  of  housekeepers  as  good  as  you 
to  be  had  for  the  asking.  Go,  when  you  please — but  take 
care  how  you  spread  scandals  about  me  and  my  affair? 
when  you're  out  of  my  service.  Tell  the  truth,  and  noth- 
ing but  the  truth,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you!  See 
Miss  Halcombe  for  yourself;  see  if  she  hasn't  been  as  well 
taken  care  of  in  one  part  of  the  house  as  in  the  other. 
Remember  the  doctor's  own  orders  that  Lady  Glyde  was 
to  have  a  change  of  air  at  the  earliest  possible  ojpportunity. 
Bear  all  that  well  in  mind — and  then  say  anything  against 
me  and  my  proceedings  if  you  dare!" 

He  poured  out  these  words  fiercely,  all  in  a  breath,  walk- 
ing backward  and  forward,  and  striking  about  him  in  the 
air  with  his  whip. 

Nothing  that  he  said  or  did  shook  my  opinion  of  the 
disgraceful  series  of  falsehoods  that  he  had  told,  in  my 
presence,  the  day  before,  or  tlie  cruel  deception  by  which 
he  had  separated  Lady  Glyde  from  her  sister,  and  had  sent 
her  uselessly  to  London,  when  she  was  half  distracted  with 
anxiety  on  Miss  Halcombe's  account.  1  naturally  kept 
these  thoughts  to  myself,  and  said  nothing  more  to  irritate 
him;  but  I  was  not  the  less  resolved  to  persist  in  my  pur- 
pose. A  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath,  and  I  suppressed 
my  own  feelings,  accordingly,  when  it  was  my  turn  to 
reply. 

"While  1  am  in  your  service.  Sir  Percival,"  I  said,  "  I 
hope  I  know  my  duty  well  enough  not  to  inquire  into  your 
motives.  When  1  am  out  of  your  service,  I  hope  I  know 
my  own  place  well  enough  not  to  speak  of  matters  which 
don't  concern  me—" 

"  When  do  5'ou  want  to  go?"  he  asked,  interrupting  me 
without  ceremony.  "  Don't  suppose  I  am  anxious  to  keep 
vou— don't  suppose  I  care  about  your  leaving  the  house, 
i  am  perfectly  fair  and  open  in  this  matter,  from  first  to 
la«r.      When  do  you  want  to  go?" 

"  1  should  wish  to  leave  at  your  earliest  convenience.  Sir 
Parcival'* 


THE    WOMATT    IN    WHIXE.  385 

"  My  conveiiieuce  has  uolhing  to  do  with  it.  I  shall  be 
(mt  of  the  hoDse,  for  good  and  all,  to-morrow  morning, 
and  I  can  settle  your  aeicouuLs  to-night.  If  you  want  to 
study  anybody's  convenience,  it  had  better  be  Miss  Hal- 
combe's.  Mrs.  Rubelle's  time  is  up  to-day,  and  she  has 
reasons  for  wishing  to  be  in  London  to-night.  If  you  go 
at  once,  Miss  llaluumbe  won't  have  a  soul  left  here  to  look 
after  her. " 

I  hope  it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  say  that  1  was  quite 
incapable  of  deserting  Miss  Halcombe  in  such  an  emer- 
gency as  had  now  befallen  Lady  Glyde  and  herself.  After 
first  distinctly  ascertaining  from  Sir  Percival  that  Mrs. 
Rubelle  was  certain  to  leave  at  once  if  1  took  her  j^lace, 
and  after  also  obtaining  permission  to  arrange  for  Mr. 
Dawson's  resuming  his  attendance  on  his  patient,  I  will- 
ingly consented  to  remain  at  Blackwater  Park  until  Miss 
Halcombe  no  longer  required  my  services.  It  was  settled 
that  I  should  give  Sir  Percival 's  solicitor  a  week's  notice 
before  I  left,  and  that  he  was  to  undertake  the  necessary 
arrangements  for  appointing  my  successor.  The  matter 
was  discussed  in  very  few  words.  At  its  conclusion  Sir 
Percival  abruptly  turned  on  his  heel,  and  left  me  free  to 
join  Mrs.  Eubelle.  That  singluar  foreign  person  had  been 
fitting  composedly  on  the  doorstep  all  this  time,  waiting 
till  I  could  follow  her  to  Miss  Halcombe's  room. 

I  had  hardly  walked  half  way  toward  the  house  when  Sir 
Percival,  who  had  withdrawn  in  the  opposite  direction, 
suddenly  stopped  and  called  me  back. 

■'  Why  are  you  leaving  my  service?"  he  asked. 

The  question  was  so  extraordinary,  after  what  had  just 
passed  between  us,  that  I  hardly  knew  what  to  say  in  an- 
swer to  it. 

"  Mind!  /don't  know  why  you  are  going,"  he  went  on. 
*'  You  must  give  a  reason  for  leaving  me,  I  suppose,  when 
you  get  another  situation.  What  reason.^  The  breaking 
ip  of  the  family?     Is  that  it?'^ 

"'There  can  be  no  positive  objection.  Sir  Percival,  to 
that  reason — " 

"  Very  well!  That's  all  I  want  to  know.  If  people  ap- 
ply for  your  character,  that's  your  reason,  stated  by  your- 
self. You  go  in  consequence  of  the  breaking  up  of  the 
family." 

He  turned  away  again,  before  1  could  say  another  word, 

13 


3^3  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

and  walked  out  rapidly  into  the  grounds.  His  manne» 
was  as  strange  as  his  language.  I  ackf:unvledgt.  he  aiarmec 
me. 

Even  the  patience  of  Mrs.  RubelJe  was  getting  3xhaustod, 
when  I  joined  her  at  the  house  door. 

"  At  last!"  she  said,  with  a  shrug  of  iier  le^n  foreigt 
shoulders.  Slie  led  the  way  into  the  inhabited  siJe  of  the 
house,  ascended  the  stairs,  and  opened  with  her  key  the 
door  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  which  conmiunicated  with 
the  old  Elizabethan  rooms — a  door  never  previously  used, 
in  my  time,  at  Black  water  Park.  The  rooms  themselves 
I  knew  well,  having  entered  them  myself,  on  various  occa- 
sions, from  the  other  side  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Rnbelle 
stopped  at  the  third  door  along  the  old  gallery,  handed  me 
the  key  of  it,  with  the  key  of  the  door  of  communication, 
and  told  me  1  should  find  Miss  Halcombe  in  that  room. 
Before  1  went  in,  1  thought  it  desirable  to  make  her  un- 
derstand that  her  attendance  had  ceased.  Accordingly,  I 
told  her  in  plain  words  that  the  charge  of  the  sick  Igdy 
henceforth  devolved  entirely  on  myself. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Eubelle.  "  I 
want  to  go  very  much." 

"  Do  you  leave  to-day?"  1  asked,  to  make  sure  of  her. 

"  Now  that  you  have  taken  charge,  ma'am,  1  leave  in 
half  an  hour's  time.  Sir  Percival  has  kindly  placed  at  my 
disposition  the  gardener  and  the  chaise  whenever  1  want 
them.  I  shall  want  them  in  half  an  hour's  time,  to  go  to 
the  station.  I  am  packed  up,  in  anticipation,  already.  1 
wish  you  good-day,  ma'am." 

She  dropped  a  brisk  courtesy  and  walked  back  along  the 
gallery,  humming  a  little  tune,  and  keeping  time  to  it 
cheerfully  with  the  nosegay  in  her  hand.  I  am  sincerely 
thankful  to  say  that  was  the  last  1  saw  of  Mrs.  Eubelle. 

When  I  went  into  the  room  Miss  Halcombe  was  asleep. 
1  looked  at  her  anxiously,  as  she  lay  in  the  dismal,  high, 
old-fashioned  bed.  She  was  certainly  not  in  any  respect 
altered  for  the  worse  since  I  had  seen  her  last.  She  had 
not  been  neglected,  I  am  bound  to  admit,  in  any  way  that 
I  could  perceive.  The  room  was  dreary,  and  dusty,  and 
dark;  but  the  window  (looking  on  a  solitary  court-yard  at 
the  hack  of  the  house)  was  opened  to  let  in  the  freph  air, 
riHil  all  that  could  be  done  to  make  the  place  comfortable 
had  beea  done.    The  whole  cruelty  of  Sir  Percival's  decep- 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  387 

tion  had  fallen  on  poor  Lady  Glyde.  The  only  ill-usage 
whi';h  either  he  or  Mrs.  Kubello  had  iuilicted  on  Miss  Hal- 
combe  con*3isted,  so  far  as  1  could  see,  in  the  first  otfeuse  of 
hiding  her  away. 

I  stole  back,  leaving  the  sick  lady  still  peacefully  asleep, 
to  give  the  gardener  iustructious  about  bringing  the  doctor. 
1  begged  the  man,  after  he  had  taken  Mrs,  Eubelle  to  the 
station,  to  drive  round  by  Mr.  Dawson's,  and  leave  a  mes- 
sage, in  my  name,  asking  him  to  call  and  see  me.  I  knew 
he  would  come  on  my  accoant,  and  I  knew  he  would  re- 
main when  he  found  Count  Fosco  had  left  the  house. 

In  due  course  of  time  the  jrardener  returned,  and  said 
that  he  had  driven  round  by  Mr.  Dawson's  residence,  after 
leaving  Mrs.  Eubelle  at  the  station.  The  doctor  sent  me 
word  that  he  was  poorly  in  health  himself,  but  that  he 
would  call,  if  possible,  the  next  morning.  Having  deliv- 
ered his  message,  the  gardener  was  about  to  withdraw,  but 
I  stopped  him  to  request  that  he  would  come  back  before 
dark,  and  sit  up,  that  night,  in  one  of  the  empty  bedrooms, 
so  as  to  be  within  call  in  case  1  wanted  him.  He  under- 
stood readily  enough  my  unwillingness  to  be  left  alone  all 
night,  in  the  most  desolate  part  of  that  desolate  house,  and 
we  arranged  that  he  should  come  in  between  eight  and  nine. 

He  came  punctually,  and  I  found  cause  to  be  thankful 
that  I  had  adopted  the  precaution  of  calling  him  in.  Before 
midnight  Sir  Fercivars  strange  temper  broke  out  in  the 
most  violent  and  most  alarming  manner,  and  if  the  gardener 
had  not  been  on  the  spot  to  pacify  him  on  the  instant,  I 
am  afraid  to  think  what  might  have  haj^pened. 

Almost  all  the  afternoon  and  evening  lie  had  been  walk- 
ing about  the  house  and  grounds  in  an  unsettled,  excitable 
manner,  having,  in  all  probability,  as  I  thought,  taken  an 
excessive  quantity  of  wine  at  his  solitary  dinner.  However 
that  may  be,  I  heard  his  voice  calling  loudly  and  angrily, 
in  the  new  wing  of  the  house,  as  I  was  taking  a  turn  back- 
ward and  forward  along  the  gallery  the  last  thing  at  night. 
The  gardener  immediately  ran  down  to  him,  and  I  closed 
tho  door  of  communication,  to  keep  the  alarm,  if  possible, 
t'rom  reach  Miss  Halcombe's  ears.  It  was  full  half  an  hour 
before  the  gardener  came  back.  He  declared  that  his  mas- 
tc-  was  quite  out  of  his  senses — not  through  the  excitement 
of  drink,  as  I  had  supposed,  but  through  a  kind  of  panic 
or  frenzy  of  mind,  for  which  it  was  impossible  to  account. 


388  THE    WOMAN    IN^    WHITE. 

He  had  foaiid  Sir  Perciviil  walking  backward  and  forward 
by  himself  iu  the  hall,  swiaritig,  with  every  appearance  oi 
the  most  violent  passion,  that  he  would  not  stop  another 
minute  alone  in  such  a  dungeon  as  his  own  house,  and  that 
he  would  take  the  first  stage  of  his  journey  immediately, 
in  the  middle  of  the  night.  The  gardener,  on  approaching 
him,  had  been  hunted  out,  with  oaths  and  threats,  to  gel 
the  horse  and  chaise  ready  instantly.  In  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  Sir  Percival  had  joined  him  in  the  yard,  had  jumped 
into  the  chaise,  and,  la-;hing  the  horse  into  a  gallop,  had 
driven  himself  away,  with  his  face  as  pale  as  ashes  in  the 
moonlight.  The  gardener  liad  heard  him  shouting  and 
cursing  at  the  lodge-keeper  to  get  up  and  open  the  gate — 
had  heard  the  wheels  roll  furiously  on  again,  iu  the  still 
uight,  when  the  gate  was  unlocked — and  knew  no  more. 

The  next  day,  or  a  day  or  two  after,  I  forget  which,  the 
chaise  was  brought  back  from  Knowlesbury,  our  nearest 
town,  by  the  hostler  at  the  old  inn.  Sir  Percival  had 
stopped  there,  and  had  afterward  left  by  the  train — for 
what  destination  the  man  could  not  tell.  1  never  received 
any  further  information,  either  from  himself  or  from  any 
one  else,  of  Sir  Percival's  proceedings,  and  I  am  not  even 
aware,  at  this  moment,  whether  he  is  in  England  or  out  of 
it.  He  and  1  have  not  met  since  he  drove  away,  like  an 
escaped  criminal,  from  his  own  house,  and  it  is  my  fervent 
hope  and  prayer  that  we  may  never  meet  again. 

My  own  part  of  this  sad  fam;ly  story  is  now  drawing  to 
an  end. 

I  have  been  informed  that  the  particulars  of  Miss  Hal- 
combe's  waking,  and  of  what  passed  between  us  when  she 
found  mo  sitting  by  her  bedside,  are  not  material  to  the 
purpose  which  is  to  be  answered  by  the  present  narrative. 
it  will  be  sutlicient  for  me  to  say,  in  this  place,  that  she  was 
not  herself  conscious  of  the  means  adopted  to  remove  her 
from  the  inhabited  to  the  uninhabited  part  of  the  house. 
She  was  in  a  d'^ep  sleep  at  the  time,  whether  naturally  or 
a-tificially  produced  she  could  not  say.  In  my  absence  at 
Torquay,  and  in  the  absence  of  all  the  resident  servants, 
exi't-pt  Margaret  Porcher  (who  was  perpetually  eating, 
d linking,  or  sleeping,  when  she  was  not  at  work),  the  se- 
(•,,-(>t  transfer  of  Miss  flalcumbe  from  one  part  of  th?  house 
to  the  other  was  no  doubt  easily  performed.     Mrs.  Rubell« 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  389 

(as  I  discovered  for  myself,  in  looking  about  the  room)  had 
provisions,  and  all  other  necessaries,  together  with  the  means 
of  heating  water,  broth,  and  so  on,  without  kindling  a 
fire,  plciced  at  her  disposal  during  the  few  days  of  her  im- 
prisonment with  the  sick  lady.  8he  bad  declined  to  answer 
the  questions  which  Miss  Halcombe  naturally  put,  but  had 
not,  in  other  respects,  treated  her  with  unkindness  or  neg- 
lect. The  disgrace  of  lending  herself  to  a  vile  deception 
is  the  oidy  disgrace  with  which  lean  conscientiously  charge 
Mrs.  Rubelle. 

1  need  write  no  particulars  (and  I  am  relieved  to  know 
it)  of  the  effect  produced  on  Miss  Halcombe  by  the  news  of 
Lady  Glyde's  departure,  or  by  the  far  more  melancholy 
tidings  which  reached  us  only  too  soon  after ivard  at  Black- 
water  Park.  In  both  cases  I  prepared  her  mind  beforehand 
as  gently  and  as  carefully  as  possible,  having  the  doctor's 
advice  to  guide  me  in  the  last  case  only,  through  Mr.  Daw- 
son's being  too  unwell  to  come  to  the  house  for  some  days 
after  I  had  sent  for  him.  It  was  a  sad  time,  a  time  which 
it  afflicts  me  to  think  of,  or  to  write  of,  now.  The  precious 
blessings  of  religious  consolation  which  I  endeavored  to  con- 
vey were  long  in  reaching  Miss  Halcombe's  heart,  but  I 
hope  and  believe  they  came  home  to  her  at  last.  1  never 
left  her  till  her  strength  was  restored.  The  train  which 
took  me  away  from  that  miserable  house  was  the  train 
which  took  her  away  also.  We  parted  very  mournfully  in 
London.  1  remained  with  a  relative  at  Islington,  and  she 
went  on  to  Mr.  Fairlie's  house  in  Cumberland. 

I  have  only  a  few  lines  more  to  write  before  1  close  this 
painful  statement.     They  are  dictated  by  a  sense  of  duty. 

In  the  first  place,  I  wish  to  record  my  own  personal  con- 
triction  that  no  blame  whatever  in  connection  with  the 
events  which  I  have  now  related  attaches  to  Count  Fosco. 
I  am  informed  that  a  dreadful  suspicion  has  been  raised., 
and  that  some  very  serious  constructions  are  placed  upon 
his  lordship's  conduct.  My  persuasion  of  the  Count's  in- 
nocence remains,  however,  quite  unshaken.  If  he  assisted 
Sir  Percival  in  sending  me  to  Torquay,  he  assisted  under  a 
delusion,  for  which,  as  a  foreigner  and  a  stranger,  he  was 
not  to  blame.  If  he  was  concerned  in  bringing  Mrs.  Eu- 
belle  to  Blackwater  Park,  it  was  his  misfortune  and  not  his 
fault,  when  that  foreign  person  was  base  enough  to  assist  a 
deception   planned  and  carried  out  by  the  master  of  the 


890  THE    WOMAK    IN    WHITE. 

house.  I  protest,  in  the  interests  of  morality,  against  blame 
being  gratuitously  ami  wantonly  attai  hud  to  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  Count. 

In  the  second  place,  I  desire  to  express  my  regret  at  my 
own  inability  to  remember  the  prt^cise  day  on  which  Lad}' 
Glyde  left  Black  water  Park  for  London.  I  am  told  that 
it  is  of  the  last  importance  to  ascertain  the  exact  date  of 
that  lamentable  journey;  and  1  have  anxiously  taxed  my 
memory  to  recall  it.  The  effort  has  been  in  vain.  1  can 
only  remember  now  that  it  was  toward  the  latter  part  of 
July.  We  all  know  the  difliculty,  after  a  lapse  of  time,  of 
fixing  precisely  on  a  past  date,  unless  it  has  been  previously 
written  down.  That  difficulty  is  greally  increased,  in  my 
case,  by  the  alarming  and  confusing  events  which  took 
place  about  the  period  of  Lady  Clyde's  departure.  I  heart- 
ily wish  I  had  made  a  memorandum  at  the  time.  I  heart- 
ily wish  my  memory  of  the  date  was  as  vivid  as  my  memory 
of  that  poor  lady's  face,  when  it  looked  at  me  sorrowfully 
for  the  last  time  from  the  carriage  window. 


THE   STORY   CONTINUED   IN    SEVERAL   NARRATIVES. 

L   The  Narrative  of  Hester  Pinhorn,  Cooh  in  the  serv- 
ice of  the  Count  Fosco. 

[TaJcen  down  from  her  own  statement.'\ 

I  AM  sorry  to  say  that  I  liave  never  learned  to  read  or 
write.  I  have  been  a  hard-working  woman  ail  my  life,  and 
have  kept  a  good  character.  1  know  that  it  is  a  sin  and 
wickedness  to  say  the  thing  which  is  uo(.,  and  I  will  truly 
beware  of  doing  so  on  this  occasion.  All  that  I  know,  I 
will  tell;  and  I  humbly  beg  the  gentleman  who  takes  this 
down  to  put  my  language  right  as  he  goes  on,  and  to  make 
allowances  for  my  being  no  scholar. 

\\\  this  last  summer  I  happened  to  be  out  of  place 
(through  no  fault  of  my  own),  and  I  heard  of  a  situation, 
as  plain  cook,  at  Number  Five  Forest  Eoad,  St.  John's 
Wood.  I  took  the  place,  on  trial.  My  master's  name  was 
Fosco.  My  mistress  w^as  an  English  lady.  He  was  Counf, 
and  she  was  Countess.  There  was  a  girl  to  do  house-maid's 
work,  when  I  got  there.     She  was  not  over  clean  or  tidy, 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  391 

bat  there  was  no  harm  m  her.     1  and  she  were  the  onlj 
servants  iu  the  house. 

Our  master  and  mistress  came  after  we  got  in.  And  as 
soon  as  they  did  come,  we  were  told,  down-staird,  that 
jompany  was  expected  from  the  country. 

The  company  was  my  mistress's  niece,  and  the  back  bed- 
room on  the  lirst  floor  was  got  ready  for  her.  My  mistress 
mentioned  to  me  that  Lady  Gl^'de  (that  was  her  name)  was 
iu  poor  health,  and  that  I  must  be  particular  m  my  cook 
ing  accordingly.  !She  was  to  come  that  day,  as  well  as  1 
can  remember— but,  whatever  you  do,  don't  trust  my 
memory  in  the  matter.  1  am  sorry  to  say  it's  no  use  ask 
ing  me  abont  days  of  the  month,  and  such-like.  Except 
Sundays,  half  my  time  I  take  no  heed  of  them,  being  a 
hard-working  woman  and  no  scholar.  All  1  know  is,  Lady 
Glyde  came;  and,  when  she  did  come,  a  fine  Iright  she  gave 
us  all,  surely.  1  don't  know  how  master  brought  her  to 
the  house,  being  hard  at  work  at  the  time.  But  he  did 
bring  her,  in  the  afternoon,  I  think,  and  the  house-maid 
opened  the  door  to  them,  and  showed  them  into  the  parlor. 
Before  she  had  been  long  down  in  the  kitchen  again  with 
me,  we  heard  a  hurry-skurry  upstairs,  and  the  parlor  bell 
ringing  like  mad,  and  my  mistress's  voice  calling  out  for 
help. 

We  both  ran  up,  and  there  wo  saw  the  lady  laid  on  the 
sofa,  with  her  face  ghastly  white,  and  her  hands  fast 
clinched,  and  her  head  drawn  down  to  one  side.  She  had 
been  taken  with  a  sudden  fright,  my  mistress  said,  and 
master  he  told  us  she  was  in  a  fit  of  convulsions.  1  ran 
out,  knowing  the  neighborhood  a  little  better  than  the  rest 
of  thein,  to  fetch  the  nearest  doctor's  help.  The  nearest 
help  was  at  Goodricke's  and  Garth's,  who  worked  together 
as  partners,  and  had  a  good  name  and  connection,  as  I  have 
heard,  all  round  St.  John's  Wood.  Mr.  Goodricke  was  in, 
and  he  came  back  with  me  directly. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  could  make  himself  of  mucli 
ase.  The  poor  unfortunate  lady  fell  out  of  one  fit  into  an- 
other, and  went  on  so  till  she  was  quite  wearied  out,  and 
as  helpless  as  a  new-borii  babe.  We  then  got  her  to  bed. 
Mr.  Goodricke  went  away  to  his  house  for  medicine,  and 
came  back  again  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  less.  Besides 
the  medicine  he  brought  a  bit  of  hollow  mahogany  wood 
with  him,  shaped  like  a  kind  of  trumpet;  and,  after  wait;- 


803  TRK     WOMAN     IN     WHITE. 

J!!g  a  little  while,  he  put  one  end  over  the  lady's  heart  and 
tiie  other  to  his  ear,  and  listened  carefully, 

Wiien  he  had  done,  he  says  to  my  mistress,  who  was  in 
the  room,  "  This  is  a  very  serious  case,"  he  says;  ''  I  rec- 
ommend you  to  write  to  Lady  Glyde's  friends  directly." 
My  mistress  says  to  him,  "  Is  it  heart-disease?"  And  he 
says,  "  Yes,  heart-disease  of  a  most  dajigerous  kind."  lie 
fcoid  hor  exactly  what  he  thougn.  was  the  matter,  which  I 
was  not  clever  enough  to  understand.  But  I  know  this^ 
he  ended  by  saying  that  he  was  afraid  neither  his  help  nor 
any  other  doctor's  help  was  likely  to  be  of  much  service. 

My  mistress  took  this  ill  news  more  quietly  than  my  mas- 
ter. He  was  a  big,  fat,  odd  sort  of  elderly  man,  who  kept 
birds  and  vvhite  mice,  and  spoke  to  them  as  if  they  were 
BO  many  Christian  children.  He  seemed  terribly  cut  up  by 
what  had  happened.  "  Ah!  poor  Lady  Glyde!  poor  dear 
Lady  Glyde!"  he  says — and  went  stalking  about,  wringing 
his  fat  hands  more  like  a  jjlay-aetor  than  a  gentleman. 
For  one  question  my  mistvess  asked  the  doctor  about  the 
lady's  chances  of  getting  round,  he  asked  a  good  fifty  at 
least.  I  declare  he  quite  tormented  us  all,  and,  when  he 
was  quiet  at  last,  out  he  went  into  the  bit  of  back  garden, 
picking  trumpery  little  nosegays,  and  asking  me  to  take 
them  upstairs  and  make  the  siek-ro^m  look  pretty  with 
them.  As  if  that  did  any  good!  I  think  he  must  have 
been,  at  times,  a  little  soft  in  his  head.  But  he  was  not  a 
bad  master:  he  had  a  monstrous  civil  tongue  of  his  own, 
and  a  jolly,  easy,  coaxing  way  with  him.  1  liked  him  a 
deal  better  than  my  mistress.  She  was  a  hard  one,  if  ever 
there  was  a  hard  one  yet. 

Toward  night-time  the  lady  roused  up  a  little.  She  had 
been  so  wearied  out,  before  that,  by  the  convulsions,  that 
she  never  stirred  hand  or  foot,  or  spoke  a  word  to  anybody. 
She  moved  in  the  bed  now,  and  stared  about  her  at  the 
room  and  us  in  it.  She  must  have  been  a  nice-looking  lady 
when  well,  with  light  hair,  and  blue  eyes,  and  all  that.  Her 
rest  was  trou!)!ed  at  night — at  least  so  I  heard  from  my 
mistress,  who  sat  up  alone  with  her.  I  only  went  in  once 
before  going  to  bed,  to  see  if  I  (;ould  be  of  any  use,  and 
then  she  was  talking  to  h;rself,  in  a  confused,  rambling 
manner.  She  soomi'd  to  want  sttdly  to  speak  to  somebody 
who  was  absent  fri);n  her  somewhere.  Icon'dti't  catch  tho 
name  the  first  time,  and  the  second  time  master  knocked 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  S'jS 

at  the  door,  with  his  regular  mouthful  of  questions,  and 
another  of  his  trumpery  nosegays. 

When  I  went  in,  early  the  next  morning,  the  lady  was 
clean  worn  out  again,  and  lay  in  a  kind  of  faint  sleep.  Mr. 
Goodricke  brought  his  partner,  Mr.  Garth,  with  him  to  ad- 
vise. They  said  she  must  not  be  disturbed  out  of  her  rest 
on  any  account.  They  asked  my  mistress  a  many  ques- 
tions, at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  abjut  what  the  lady's 
health  had  been  in  past  times,  and  who  had  attended  her, 
and  whether  she  had  ever  suffered  much  and  long  together 
uiuler  distress  of  mind.  1  remember  my  mistress  said, 
"  Yes,"  to  that  last  question.  And  Mr.  Goodricke  looked 
at  Mr.  Garth,  and  shook  his  head.  They  seemed  to  think 
that  the  distress  might  have  something  to  do  with  the  mis- 
chief at  the  lady's  heart.  She  was  but  a  frail  thing  to  look 
at,  poor  creature!  Very  little  strength  at  any  time,  1 
should  say— very  little  strength. 

Later  on  the  same  morning,  when  she  woke^  the  lady 
took  a  sudden  turn,  and  got  seemingly  a  great  deal  better. 
I  was  not  let  in  again  to  see  her,  no  more  was  the  house- 
maid, for  the  reason  that  she  was  not  to  be  disturbed  by 
strangers.  What  I  heard  of  her  being  better  was  through 
my  master.  He  was  in  wonderful  good  spirits  about  the 
change,  and  looked  in  at  the  kitchen  window  from  the  gar- 
den, with  his  great  big  curly-brimmed  white  hat  on,  to  go 
out. 

"  Good  Mrs.  Cook,"  says  he,  "  Lady  Glyde  is  better. 
My  mind  is  more  easy  than  it  was,  and  I  am  going  out  to 
stretch  my  big  legs  with  a  sunny  little  summer  walk.  Shall 
I  order  for  you,  shall  I  market  for  you,  Mrs.  Cook?  What 
are  you  making  there?  A  luce  tart  for  dinner?  Much 
crust,  if  you  please — much  crisp  crust,  my  dear,  that  melts 
and  crumbles  delicious  in  the  mouth."  That  was  his  way. 
He  was  past  sixty,  and  fond  of  pastry.     Just  think  of  that! 

IMie  doctor  came  again  in  the  forenoon,  and  saw  for  him- 
self that  Lady  Glyde  had  woke  up  better.  He  forbid  us  to 
talk  to  her,  or  to  let  her  talk  to  us,  in  case  she  was  that 
way  disposed,  saying  she  must  be  kept  quiet  before  all 
things,  and  encouraged  to  sleep  as  much  as  possible.  She 
did  not  seem  to  want  to  talk  whenever  I  saw  her — except 
over  night,  when  I  couldn't  make  out  what  she  was  saying 
— sue  seemed  too  much  worn  down.  Mr.  Goodricke  was 
not  nearly  in  such  good  spirits  about  her  as  master.     He 


SD4  THE    WOMAN    I.N"    WHITE. 

said  nothing  when  he  came  down-stairs,  except  that  h* 
would  call  again  at  five  o'clock. 

About  that  time  (which  was  before  master  came  home 
again)  the  bell  rang  hard  from  the  bedroom,  and  my  mis- 
tress ran  out  into  the  landing,  and  called  to  me  to  go  foj* 
Mr.  Goodricke,  and  tell  him  the  lady  had  fainted.  I  got 
on  my  bonnet  and  shawl,  when,  as  good  luck  would  have 
it,  the  doctor  himself  came  to  the  house  for  hi«  promised 
visit. 

I  let  him  in,  and  went  upstairs  along  with  him.  *'  Lady 
Glyde  was  just  as  usual,^'  says  my  mistress  to  him  at  the 
door;  "  she  was  awake,  and  looking  about  her,  in  a  strange 
forlorn  manner,  when  I  heard  her  give  a  sort  of  half  cry, 
and  she  fainted  in  a  moment."  The  doctor  went  up  to 
the  bed,  and  stooped  down  over  the  sick  lady.  He  looked 
very  serious,  all  on  a  sudden,  at  the  sight  of  her,  and  put 
his  hand  on  her  heart. 

My  mistress  stared  hard  in  Mr.  Goodricke's  f aco.  "  Not 
dead  I"  says  she,  whispering,  and  turning  all  of  a  tremble 
from  head  to  foot. 

*'  Yes,"  says  the  doctor,  very  quiet  and  grave.  "  Dead. 
I  was  afraid  it  would  happen  suddenly,  when  1  examined 
her  heart  yesterday."  My  mistress  stepped  back  from  the 
bedside  while  he  was  speaking,  and  trembled  and  trembled 
again.  "  Dead!"  she  whispers  to  herself;  "dead  so  sud- 
denly! dead  so  soon!  What  will  the  Count  say?"  Mr. 
Goodricke  advised  her  to  go  down-stairs,  and  quiet  herself 
a  little.  "  You  have  been  sitting  up  all  night,"  says  he, 
"  and  your  nerves  are  shaken.  This  person,"  says  be, 
meaning  me,  "  this  person  will  stay  in  the  room  till  1  can 
send  for  the  necessary  assistance."  My  mistress  did  as  he 
told  her.  "I  must  prepare  the  Count,"  she  says.  ',' 1 
must  carefully  prepare  the  Count."  And  so  she  left  us, 
shaking  from  head  to  foot,  and  went  out. 
.  "  Your  master  is  a  foreigner,"  says  Mr.  Goodricke,  when 
my  mistress  had  left  us.  "  Does  he  understand  about  reg- 
istering the  death?"  "  I  can't  rightly  tell,  sir,"  says  i. 
"  but  I  should  think  not."  The  doctor  considered  a  min- 
ute, and  then,  says  he,  "  I  don't  usually  do  such  things," 
says  he,  "  but  it  may  save  the  family  trouble  in  this  case  if 
I  register  the  death  myself.  I  shall  pass  the  district  office 
in  half  an  hour's  time,  and  I  can  easily  look  in.  Mention, 
if  you  please,  that  I  will  do  so."     "  Yes,  sir,"  sajs  I, 


T7T!'     WOMAN     IV     WHITR.  395 

'*  with  thanks,  I'm  sure,  for  your  kindness  in  thinking  of 
it."  "You  don't  mind  staying  here  till  1  can  send  you 
the  proper  person?"  says  he.  "  Xo,  sir,"  sa3's  I;  '*  Fll 
stay  with  the  poor  lady  till  then.  ]  suppose  nothing  more 
could  be  done,  sir,  than  was  done?"  says  I.  "  No,"  says 
he,  "  nothing;  she  must  have  suffered  sadly  before  ever  1 
saw  her:  the  case  was  hopeless  when  I  was  called  in." 
"  Ah,  dear  me!  we  all  come  to  it,  sooner  or  later,  don't 
we,  sir?"  says  1.  He  gave  nd  answer  to  that;  he  didn't 
seem  to  care  about  talking.  He  said,  "  Good -day,"  and 
went  out. 

1  stopped  by  the  bedside  from  that  time  till  the  time 
when  Mr.  Goodricke  sent  the  person  in,  as  he  had  prom- 
ised. She  was  by  name  Jane  Gould.  I  considered  her  to 
be  a  respectable-looking  woman.  She  made  no  remark, 
except  to  say  that  she  understood  what  was  wanted  of  her, 
and  that  she  had  winded  a  many  of  them  in  her  time. 

How  master  bore  the  news,  when  he  first  heard  it,  is 
more  than  I  can  tell,  not  having  been  present.  When  I 
did  see  him  he  looked  awfully  overcome  by  it,  to  be  sure. 
He  sat  quiet  in  a  corner,  with  his  fat  hands  hanging  over 
his  thick  knees,  and  his  head  down,  and  his  eyes  looking 
at  nothing.  He  seemed  not  so  much  sorry  as  scared  and 
dazed  like,  by  what  had  happened.  My  mistress  managed 
all  that  was  to  be  done  about  the  funeral.  It  must  have 
cost  a  sight  of  money:  the  coffin,  in  particular,  being  most 
beautiful.  The  dead  lady's  husband  was  away,  as  we 
beard,  in  foreign  parts.  But  my  mistress  (being  her  aunt) 
settled  it  with  her  friends  in  the  country  (Cumberland,  1 
think)  that  she  should  be  buried  them,  in  the  same  grave 
along  with  her  mother.  Everything  was  done  handsomely 
in  respect  of  the  funeral,  1  say  again,  and  master  went  down 
to  attend  the  burying  in  the  country  himself.  He  looked 
grand  in  his  deep  mourning,  with  his  big,  solemn  face,  and 
his  slow  walk,  and  his  broad  hat-band — that  he  did! 

In  conclusion,  I  have  to  say,  in  answer  to  questions  put 
to  me, 

(1)  That  neither  I  nor  my  fellow-servant  ever  saw  my 
master  give  Lady  Glyde  any  medicine  himself. 

(2)  That  he  was  never,  to  my  knowledge  and  belief,  left 
alone  in  the  room  with  Lady  Glyde. 

(3)  That  1  am  not  able  to  =av  what  caused  the  sudden 
fright  which  my  mistress  informed  me  had  seized  the  lady 


396  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Oil  her  first  coming  into  the  house.     The  cause  was  neT«f 
explained,  either  to  me  or  to  my  fellow-servant. 

The  above  statement  has  been  read  over  in  my  presence. 
I  have  nothing  to  add  to  it  or  to  take  away  from  it.  1  say, 
ou  my  oath  as  a  Christian  woman,  This  is  the  truth. 

(Signed)  Hester  Pinhokn,  Her  +  Mark. 

2.    Tlie  Narrative  of  the  Doctor. 

To  the  Registrar  of  the  Sub-District  in  which  the  under- 
mentioned Death  took  place. — I  hereby  certify  tfiat  1  at- 
tended Lady  Glyde,  aged  Twenty-One  last  Birthday;  that 
I  last  saw  her  on  Thursday,  the  25th  of  July,  1S50;  that 
slie  died  on  the  same  day  at  No.  5  Forest  Road,  St.  John's 
Wood;  and  that  the  cause  of  her  deaih  was,  Aneurism. 
Duration  of  Disease,  not  known. 

(Signed)  Alfred  Goodricke. 

Prof  I.  Title.     M.R.C.S.  Eiuj.  L.S.A.  ~  ^ 
Address.     12  Croydon  Gardens,  iSt.  Jolm's  Wood. 

3.  The  Narrative  of  J atse  Gould. 

I  WAS  the  person  sent  in  by  Mr.  Goodricke  to  do  what 
was  right  and  needful  by  the  remains  of  a  lady  who  had 
died  at  the  house  named  in  the  certificate  which  precedes 
I  Ills.  1  found  the  body  in  charge  of  the  servant,  Hester 
Pinhorn.  I  remained  with  it,  and  prepared  it,  at  the 
proper  time,  for  the  grave.  It  was  laid  in  the  coflin  in  my 
presence,  and  I  afterward  saw  the  cofiiii  screwed  down,  pre- 
vious to  its  removal.  When  that  had  been  done,  and  not 
before,  I  received  what  was  due  to  me,  and  left  the  house. 
I  refer  persons  who  may  wisli  ro  investigate  my  character 
to  Mr.  Goodricke.  Jle  will  bear  witness  that  I  can  be 
trusted  to  tell  the  truth. 

(Signed)  Jane  Gould. 

4.  The  Karraiive  of  tlic  Tovihst07ie. 

Sacred  to  the  M(  mory  of  Laura,  Lady  Glyde,  wife  of 
Sir  Percival  Glyde,  Bart. ,  of  I'iackwater  Park,  Hampshire, 
and  daughter  of  the  late  Pliili[)  P'airlie,  Esq.,  of  Limme- 
ridge  House,  in  this  parish.  Born,  March  27,  1829;  mar- 
ried, December  22a,  181U;  died,  July  25th,  IS^O. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  397 


5.   T/ie  JVarrative  of  Walter  Hartright. 

Early  in  the  summer  of  1850  I  and  my  surviving  com- 
panions left  the  wilds  and  forests  of  Central  America  for 
home.  Arrived  at  the  coast,  we  took  ship  there  for  Ei)g- 
land.  The  vessel  was  wrecked  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico;  I 
was  among  the  few  saved  from  the  sea.  It  was  my  third 
escape  from  peril  of  death.  Death  by  disease,  death  by 
the  Indians,  death  by  drowning — all  three  had  approached 
me;  all  three  had  passed  mo  by. 

The  survivors  of  the  wreck  were  rescued  by  an  American 
vessel,  bound  for  Liverpool.  The  ship  reached  her  port 
on  the  thirteenth  day  of  October,  1850.  We  landed  late 
in  the  afternoon,  and  I  arrived  in  London  the  same  night. 

These  pages  are  not  the  record  of  my  wanderings  and  my 
dangers  away  from  home.  The  motives  which  led  me  from 
my  country  and  my  friends  to  a  new  world  of  adventure 
and  peril  are  known.  From  that  self-imposed  exile  I  came 
back,  as  I  had  hoped,  prayed,  believed  I  should  come  back, 
a  changed  man.  In  the  waters  of  a  new  life  I  had  tempered 
my  nature  afresh.  In  the  stern  school  of  extremity  and 
danger  my  will  had  learned  to  be  strong,  my  heart  to  be 
resolute,  my  mind  to  rely  on  itself.  1  had  gone  out  to  fly 
from  my  own  future.  1  came  back  to  face  it,  as  a  man 
should. 

To  face  it  with  that  inevitable  suppression  of  myself 
which  I  knew  it  would  demand  from  me.  1  had  parted 
with  the  worst  bitterness  of  the  past,  but  not  with  my 
hearths  remembrance  of  the  sorrow  and  the  tenderness  of 
that  memorable  time.  I  hud  not  ceased  to  feel  the  one  ir- 
reparable disappointment  of  my  life — I  had  only  learned 
to  bear  it.  Laura  Fairlie  was  in  all  my  thoughts  when  the 
ship  bore  me  away  and  I  looked  my  last  at  England.  Laura 
Fairlie  was  in  all'  my  thoughts  when  the  ship  brought  me 
back  and  the  morning  light  showed  the  friendly  shore  in 
view. 

My  pen  traces  the  old  letters  as  my  heart  goes  back  to 
the  old  love.  I  write  of  her  as  Laura  Fairlie  still.  It  is 
hard  to  think  of  her,  it  is  hard  to  speak  of  her,  by  her  hus- 
band's name. 

There  are  no  more  words  uf  """lauatiou  to  add,  on  my 


398  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

appearing  for  the  second  time  in  these  pages.  This  narr*. 
tive,  if  1  have  the  strength  and  the  courage  to  write  it, 
may  now  go  on. 

My  first  anxieties  and  my  first  hopes,  when  the  morning 
came,  centered  in  my  mother  and  my  sister.  1  felt  the 
necessity  of  preparing  them  for  the  joy  and  surpr/(se  of  my 
return,  after  an  absence  during  which  it  had  been  impossi- 
ble for  them  to  receive  any  tidings  of  me  for  months  past. 
Early  in  the  morning  I  sent  a  letter  to  the  Hampstead 
Cottage,  and  followed  it  myself  in  an  hour's  time. 

When  the  first  meeting  was  over,  when  our  quiet  and 
composure  of  other  days  began  gradually  to  return  to  us, 
I  saw  something  in  my  mother's  face  which  told  me  that  a 
secret  oppression  lay  heavy  on  her  heart.  There  was  more 
than  love,  there  was  sorrow  in  the  anxious  eyes  that  looked 
on  me  so  tenderly;  there  was  pity  in  the  kind  hand  that 
slowly  and  fondly  strengthened  its  hold  on  mine.  We  had 
no  concealments  from  each  other.  She  knew  how  the  hope 
of  my  life  had  been  wrecked — she  knew  why  I  had  left 
her.  It  was  on  my  Jips  to  ask,  as  coniposetliy  as  I  could, 
if  any  letter  had  come  for  me  from  Miss  Halcombe— if  there 
was  any  news  of  her  sister  that  1  might  hear.  But  when  I 
looked  in  my  mother's  face  I  lost  courage  to  put  the  ques- 
tion even  in  that  guarded  form.  I  could  only  say,  doubt- 
ingly  and  restrainedly. 

"  You  have  something  to  tell  me." 

My  sister,  who  had  been  sitting  opposite  to  us,  rose  sud- 
denly, without  a  word  of  explanation — rose,  and  left  the 
room. 

My  mother  moved  closer  to  me  on  the  sofa,  and  put  her 
arms  round  my  neck.  Those  fond  arms  trembled;  the 
tears  tiowed  fast  over  the  faithful  loving  face. 

"  Walter!"  she  whispered — "  my  own  darling!  my  heart 
is  heavy  for  you.  Oh,  my  son!  my  son!  try  to  remember 
that  1  am  still  left!" 

My  head  sunk  on  her  bosom.  She  had  said  all,  in  saying 
those  words. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  third  day  since  my  return — the 
morning  of  the  sixteenth  of  October. 

I  had  remained  with  them  at  the  Cottage;  I  had  tried 
hard  not  to  imbitter  the  happiness  of  my  return,  to  them, 
as  it  was  imbittered  to  me.     I  had  done  all  man  could  to 


THE    WOMAN    IN    "WHITE.  399 

rise  after  the  shock,  and  accept  my  life  resignedly — to  let 
my  great  sorrow  come  in  tenderness  to  my  heart,  and  not 
in  despair.  It  was  useless  and  hopeless.  No  tears  soothed 
my  acliing  eyes;  no  relief  came  to  me  from  my  sister's  sym- 
pathy or  my  mother's  love. 

On  that  third  morning  1  opened  my  heart  to  them.  At 
last  the  words  passed  my  lips  which  I  had  longed  to  speak 
on  the  day  when  my  mother  told  me  of  her  death. 

"  Let  me  go  away  alone  for  a  little  while,"  1  said.  "  I 
shall  bear  it  better  when  I  have  looked  once  more  at  the 
place  where  I  first  saw  her — when  1  have  knelt  and  prayed 
by  the  grave  where  they  have  laid  her  to  rest." 

I  departed  on  my  journey — my  journey  to  the  grave  of 
Laura  Fairlie. 

It  was  a  quiet  autumn  afternoon  when  I  stopped  at  the 
solitary  station,  aud  set  forth  alone,  on  foot,  by  the  well- 
remembered  road.  The  waning  sun  was  shining  faintly 
through  the  thin  white  clouds;  the  air  was  warm  and  still; 
the  peacef  ulness  of  the  lonely  country  was  overshadowed 
and  saddened  by  the  influence  of  the  falling  year. 

I  reached  the  moor;  I  stood  again  on  the  brow  of  the  hill; 
r  looked  on,  along  the  path — and  there  were  the  familiar 
garden  trees  in  the  distance,  the  clear  sweeping  semicircle 
of  the  drive,  the  high  white  walls  of  Limmeridge  House. 
The  chances  and  changes,  the  wanderings  and  dangers  of 
months  and  months  past,  all  shrunk  and  shriveled  to 
nothing  in  my  mind.  It  was  like  yesterday  since  my  feet 
had  last  trodden  the  fragrant  heathy  ground!  I  thought 
1  should  see  her  coming  to  meet  me,  with  her  little  straw 
hat  shading  her  face,  her  simple  dress  fluttering  in  the  air, 
»nd  her  well-filled  sketch-book  ready  in  her  hand. 

Oh,  Death,  (hou  hast  thy  sting!  oh.  Grave,  thou  hast  thy 
fictory! 

I  turned  aside;  and  there,  below  me  in  the  glen,  was  the 
lonesome  gray  church;  the  porch  where  I  had  waited  for 
the  coming  of  the  woman  in  white;  the  hills  encircling  the 
quiet  burial-ground;  the  brook  bubbling  cold  over  its  stony 
bed.  There  was  the  marble  cross,  fair  and  white,  at  the 
head  of  the  tomb — the  tomb  that  now  rose  over  mother  ai.d 
daughter  alike. 

I  approached  the  grave.  I  crossed  once  more  the  low 
Btone  stile,  and  bared  my  head  as  I  touched  the  sacred 


400  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

ground.  Sacred  to  gentleaess  and  goodness;  sacred  to  reT- 
erence  and  grief. 

I  stopped  before  the  pedestal  from  which  the  cross  rose. 
On  one  side  of  it,  on  the  side  nearest  to  me,  ihe  nett'l3^-cut 
inscription  met  my  eyes — the  hard,  clear,  cruel  black  let- 
ters which  told  the  story  of  her  life  and  deatii.  I  ti-ied  to 
read  them.  I  did  read  as  far  as  the  name.  "  Sacied  to 
the  Memory  of  Laura — "  The  kind  blue  eyes  dim  with 
tears;  the  fair  head  drooping  wearily;  the  innocent  parting 
words  which  implored  me  to  leave  her — oh,  for  a  ha])pier 
la^t  memory  of  her  than  this;  the  memory  I  took  away 
with  me,  the  memory  I  bring  back  with  me  to  her  grave! 

A  second  time  I  tried  to  read  the  inscription.  I  saw,  at 
the  end,  the  date  of  her  death;  and  above  it — 

Above  it,  there  were  lines  on  the  marble,  there  was  a 
name  among  them,  which  disturbed  my  thoughts  of  her. 
1  went  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  grave,  where  there 
was  nothing  to  read — nothing  of  earthly  vileness  to  force 
its  way  between  her  spirit  and  mine. 

I  knelt  down  by  the  tomb.  1  laid  my  hands,  I  laid  my 
head,  on  the  broad  white  stone,  and  closed  my  weary  eyes 
on  the  earth  around,  on  the  light  above.  1  let  her  come 
back  to  me.  Oh,  my  love!  my  love!  my  heart  may  speak 
to  you  now  !  It  is  yesterday  again,  since  we  parted — yester- 
day, since  your  dear  hand  lay  in  mine— yesterday,  since  my 
eyes  looked  their  last  on  you.     My  love!  my  love! 

Time  had  flowed  on;  and  silence  had  fallen,  like  thick 
night,  over  its  course. 

The  first  sound  that  came,  after  the  heavenly  peace,  rus- 
tled faintly,  like  a  passing  breath  of  air,  over  the  grass  of 
the  burial-ground.  1  heard  it  nearing  me  slowly,  until  it 
came  changed  to  my  ear — came  like  footsteps  moving  on- 
ward— then  stopped. 

I  looked  up. 

The  sunset  was  near  at  hand.  The  clouds  had  parted; 
the  slanting  light  fell  mellow  over  the  hills.  The  last  of 
the  day  was  cold  and  clear  and  still  in  the  quiet  valley  of 
the  dead. 

Beyond  me,  in  the  burial-ground,  standing  together  in 
the  cold  clearness  of  the  lower  light,  I  saw  two  women. 
They  were  looking  toward  the  tomb — looking  toward  m^. 

Tm 


THK    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  401 

They  came  a  little  on,  and  stopped  again.  Their  veils 
were  down,  and  hid  their  faces  from  me.  When  they 
stopped,  one  of  them  raised  her  veil.  In  the  evening  light 
I  saw  the  face  of  Marian  Halcombe. 

Ciianged,  changed  as  if  years  had  passed  over  it!  The 
eyes  large  and  wild,  and  looking  at  me  with  a  strange  ter- 
ror in  tliem.  The  face  woid  and  wasted  piteously.  Pain 
and  fear  and  grief  written  on  her  as  with  a  brand. 

1  took  one  step  toward  her  from  the  grave.  She  never 
moved—she  never  spoke.  The  veiled  woman  with  her 
cried  out  faintly.  I  stopped.  The  springs  of  my  life  fell 
low;  and  the  shuddering  of  an  unutterable  dread  crept  over 
me  from  head  to  foot. 

The  woman  with  the  veiled  face  moved  away  from  her 
companion,  and  came  toward  me  slowly.  Left  by  herself, 
standing  by  herself,  Marian  Halcombe  spoke.  It  was  the 
voice  that  1  remembered — the  voice  not  changed,  like  the 
frightened  eyes  and  the  wasted  face. 

"  My  dream!  my  dream!"  I  heard  her  say  those  words 
softly,  in  the  awful  silence.  She  sunk  on  her  knees,  and 
raised  her  clasped  hands  to  the  heaven.  "  Father!  strength- 
en him.     Father!  help  him,  in  his  hour  of  need." 

The  woman  came  on,  slowly  and  silently  came  on.  I 
looked  at  her — at  her,  and  at  none  other,  from  that  mo- 
ment. 

The  voice  that  was  praying  for  mo  faltered  and  sunk  low 
—then  rose  on  a  sudden,  and  called  affrightedly,  called 
despairingly  to  me  to  come  away. 

But  the  veiled  woman  had  possession  of  me,  body  and 
Koul.  She  stopped  on  one  side  of  the  grave.  We  stood  face 
to  face,  with  the  tombstone  between  us.  She  was  close  to 
the  inscription  on  the  side  of  the  pedestal.  Her  gown 
touched  the  black  letters. 

The  voice  came  nearer,  and  rose  and  rose  more  passion- 
ately still.  "  Hide  your  face!  dou't  look  at  her!  Oh,  for 
liod's  sake  spare  him — " 

The  woman  lifted  her  veil. 

"  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Laura,  Lady  Glyde— " 

Laurh,  Lady  Glyde,  was  Ftanding  by  the  inscription,  and 
was  looking  at  mo  over  the  grave. 


40)3  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 


THE  THIRD  EPOCH. 


The  Story  continued  hy  "Walter  Hartright. 
I. 

I  OPEN  a  new  page.  I  advance  my  narrative  by  one  week. 

The  history  of  the  interval  which  I  thus  pass  over  must 
remain  unrecorded.  My  heart  turns  faint,  my  mind  siuiia 
in  darkness  and  confusion,  when  I  think  of  it.  This 
must  not  be,  if  1,  who  write,  am  to  guide,  as  I  ought,  you 
who  read.  This  must  not  be,  if  the  clew  that  leads  through 
the  windings  of  the  Story  is  to  remain,  from  end  to  end, 
untangled  in  my  hands. 

A  life  suddenly  changed — its  whole  purpose  created 
afiesh;  its  hopes  and  fears,  its  struggles,  its  interests,  and 
its  sacrifices,  all  turned  at  once  and  forever  into  a  new  di- 
rection—this is  the  prospect  which  now  opens  before  me, 
like  the  burst  of  view  from  a  mountain's  top.  I  left  my 
narrative  in  the  quiet  shadow  of  Limmeridge  church:  I 
resume  it,  one  week  later,  in  the  stir  and  turmoil  of  a  Lon- 
don street. 

The  street  is  in  a  populous  and  a  poor  neighborhood. 
The  ground  floor  of  one  of  the  houses  in  it  is  occupied  by 
a  small  news-vender's  shop;  and  the  first  floor  and  the  sec- 
ond are  let  as  furnished  lodgings  of  the  humblest  kind. 

I  have  taken  those  two  floors  in  an  assumed  name.  On 
the  upper  floor  1  live,  with  a  room  to  work  in,  a  room  to 
sleep  in.  On  the  lower  floor,  under  the  same  assumed  name, 
two  women  live,  who  are  described  as  my  sisters.  I  get 
my  bread  by  drawing  and  engraving  on  wood  for  the  cheap 
periodicals.  My  sisters  are  supposed  to  help  me  by  taking 
in  a  little  needle-work.  Our  poor  place  of  abode,  our  hum- 
ble calling,  our  assumed  relationship,  and  our  assumed 
name,  are  all  used  alike  as  a  means  of  hiding  us  in  the  house- 
forest  of  London.  We  are  numbered  no  longer  with  the 
people  whose  lives  are  open  and  known.  I  am  an  obscure, 
unnoticed  man,   without  patron  or  friend   to  help  me, 


THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE.  403 

Marian  Halcombe  isnothiDg  now  but  my  eldest  sister,  who 
provides  for  our  household  wants  by  the  toil  of  her  own 
hands.  We  two,  in  the  estimation  of  others,  are  at  once 
the  dupes  and  the  agents  of  a  daring  imposture.  We  are 
supposed  to  be  the  accomplices  of  mad  Anne  Catherick, 
who  claims  the  name,  the  place,  and  the  Living  personality 
of  dead  Lady  Glyde. 

That  is  our  situation.  That  is  the  changed  aspect  in 
which  we  three  must  appear,  henceforth,  in  this  narrative, 
for  many  and  many  a  page  to  come. 

In  the  eye  of  reason  and  of  law,  in  the  estimation  of  rel- 
atives and  friends,  according  to  every  received  formality  of 
civilized  society,  "  Laura,  Lady  Glyde,"  lay  buried  with 
her  mother  in  Limmeridge  church-yard.  Torn  in  her  own 
life-time  from  the  list  of  the  living,  tho  daughter  of  Phih'p 
Pairlie  and  the  wife  of  Percival  Glyde  might  still  exist  for 
her  sister,  might  still  exist  for  me,  but  to  all  the  world  be- 
sides she  was  dead.  Dead  to  her  uncle,  who  had  renounced 
her;  dead  to  the  servants  of  the  house,  who  had  failed  to 
recognize  her;  dead  to  the  persons  in  authority  who  had 
transmitted  her  fortune  to  her  husband  and  her  aunt;  dead 
to  my  mother  and  sister,  who  believed  me  to  be  the  dupe 
of  an  advearuress  and  the  victim  of  a  fraud;  socially, 
morally,  legally — dead. 

And  yet  alive!  Alive  in  poverty  and  in  hiding.  Alive, 
with  the  poor  drawing-master  to  fight  her  battle,  and  to 
win  the  way  back  for  her  to  her  place  in  the  world  of  the 
living  beings. 

Did  no  suspicion,  excited  by  my  own  knoweldge  of  Anne 
Catherick's  resemblance  to  her,  cross  my  mind  when  her 
face  was  first  revealed  to  me?  Not  the  shadow  of  a  sus- 
picion, from  the  moment  when  she  lifted  her  veil  by  the 
side  of  the  inscription  which  recorded  her  death. 

Before  the  sun  of  that  day  had  set,  before  the  last 
glimpses  of  the  home  which  was  closed  against  her  had 
passed  from  our  view,  the  farewell  words  J  spoke  when  we 
parted  at  Limmeridge  House  had  been  recalled  by  both  of 
us,  repeated  by  me,  recognized  by  her.  "  If  ever  the  time 
comes  when  the  devotion  of  my  whole  heart  and  soul  and 
strength  will  give  you  a  moment's  happiness,  or  spare  you  a 
moment's  sorrow,  will  you  try  to  remember  the  poor  draw- 
ing-master who  has  ta~ught  you?"    She,  who  now  remember- 


404  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

ed  so  little  of  the  trouble  and  terror  of  a  later  time,  remem- 
bered those  words,  and  laid  her  poor  head  innocently  and 
trustingly  on  the  bosom  of  the  man  who  had  spoken  them. 
In  that  moment,  when  she  called  me  by  my  name,  wlien 
she  said,  "  They  have  tried  to  make  me  forget  everything, 
Walter;  but  1  remember  Marian,  and  I  remember  you" — 
in  that  moment,  I,  who  had  long  since  given  her  my 
love,  gave  her  my  lije,  and  thanked  God  that  it  was  mine 
to  bestow  on  her.  Ves!  the  time  had  come.  From 
thousands  on  thousands  of  miles  away;  through  forest  and 
wilderness,  where  companions  stronger  than  I  had  fallen  by 
my  side;  through  pei-il  of  death  thrice  renewed,  and  thrice 
escaped,  the  Hand  that  leads  men  on  the  dark  road  to  the 
future,  had  led  me  to  meet  that  time.  Forlorn  and  dis- 
owned, sorely  tried  and  sadly  clianged;  her  beauty  faded, 
her  mind  clouded;  robbed  of  her  station  in  the  world,  of 
her  place  among  living  creatures — the  devotion  I  had 
promised,  tiie  devotion  of  niy  whole  heart  and  soul  and 
strength,  might  be  laid  blamelessly,  now,  at  those  dear 
feet.  In  the  right  of  her  calamity,  in  the  right  of  her 
friendliness,  she  was  mine  at  last!  Mine  to  support,  to 
protect,  to  cherish,  to  restore.  Mine  to  love  and  honor  as 
father  and  brother  both.  Mine  to  vindicate  through  all 
risks  and  all  sacrifices — through  the  hopeless  struggle 
against  Rank  and  Power,  through  the  long  fight  with 
armed  deceit  and  fortified  Succesb-,  through  the  waste  of 
my  reputation,  through  the  loss  of  my  friends,  through  the 
hazard  of  my  life. 

II. 

My  position  is  defined;  my  motives  are  acknowledged. 
The  story  of  Marian  and  the  story  of  Laura  must  come 
next. 

1  shall  relate  both  narratives,  not  in  the  words  (often 
mterrupted,  often  inevitably  confused)  of  the  speakers 
themselves,  but  in  the  words  of  the  brief,  plain,  studiously 
simple  abstract  which  I  committed  to  writing  for  my  own 
guidance  and  for  the  guidance  of  my  legal  adviser.  So  the 
tangled  web  will  be  most  speedily  and  most  intelligibly  un- 
rolled. 

The  story  of  Marian  begins  where  the  narrative  of  the 
housekeeper  at  Blackwater  Park  left;  olS 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  4 '5 

On  Lady  Glyde's  departure  from  ber  husband's  house, 
the  I'aoG  of  that  departure,  and  the  necessary  statement  of 
•ne  cii'cumstances  under  which  it  had  taken  place,  were 
conimunicaled  to  Miss  Ilalcombe  by  the  housekeeper.  It 
was  not  till  some  days  afterward  (how  masiy  days  exactly, 
MrSo  Miehelsou,  in  the  absence  of  any  written  memoran- 
dum on  the  subject,  could  not  undertake  to  say)  that  a 
letter  arrived  from  Mnie.  Fosco  announcing  Lady  Glyde's 
sudden  death  in  Count  Fosco's  house.  The  letter  avoided 
mentioning  dates,  and  left  it  to  Mrs.  Michelson's  discre- 
tion to  break  the  news  at  once  to  Miss  lialcombe,  or  to 
defer  doing  so  until  that  lady^s  health  should  be  more 
tirraly  established. 

Having  consulted  Mr.  Dawson  (who  had  been  himself 
delayed,  by  ill  health,  in  resuming  his  attendance  at 
Blackwater  Park),  Mrs.  Michelson,  by  the  doctor's  advice, 
and  in  the  doctor's  presence,  communicated  the  news, 
either  on  the  day  when  the  letter  was  received  or  on  the 
day  after.  It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  here  upon  the  effect 
which  the  intelligence  of  Lady  Glyde's  sudden  death  pro- 
duced on  her  sister.  It  is  only  useful  to  the  present  pur- 
pose to  say  that  she  was  not  able  to  travel  for  more  than 
three  weeks  afterward.  At  the  end  of  that  time  she  pro- 
ceeded to  London,  accompanied  by  the  housekeeper.  They 
parted  there,  Mrs.  Michelson  previously  informing  Miss 
Halcombe  of  her  address,  in  case  they  might  wish  to  com- 
municate at  a  future  period. 

On  parting  with  the  housekeeper,  Miss  Halcombe  went 
at  once  to  the  office  of  Messrs.  Gil  more  and  Kyrle,  to  con- 
sult with  the  latter  gentleman,  in  Mr.  Gilmore's  absence. 
She  mentioned  to  Mr.  Kyrle — what  she  had  thought  it 
desirable  to  conceal  from  every  one  else  (Mrs.  Michelson 
included) — her  suspicion  of  the  circumstances  under  which 
Lady  Giyde  was  said  to  hare  met  her  death.  Mr.  Kyrle, 
who  had  previously  given  friendly  proof  of  his  anxiety  to 
serve  Miss  Halcombe,  at  once  undertook  to  make  such 
inquiries  as  the  delicate  and  dangerous  nature  of  the  in- 
vestigation proposed  to  him  would  permit. 

To  exhaust  this  part  of  the  subject  before  going  further, 
it  may  be  here  mentioned  that  Count  Fosco  offered  every 
faL-ility  to  Mr.  Kyi  ie,  on  that  gentleman's  stating  that  he 
was  sent  by  Miss  H<t!  rmbe  to  collect  such  particulars  as 
had  not  yet  reached  her  of  Lady  Glyde's  decease.     Mr^ 


406  THE    "WOMA^r    IN    WHITE. 

Kyrle  was  placed  in  communication  with  the  medical  man, 
Mr.  Goodricke,  and  with  the  two  servants.  In  the  absence 
of  any  means  of  ascertainin;j[  the  exact  date  of  Lady  Glyde's 
departure  from  Black  water  Park,  the  result  of  the  doctor's 
and  the  servant's  evidence,  and  of  the  volunteered  state- 
ments of  Count  Fosco  aad  his  wife,  was  conclusive  to  the 
mind  of  Mr.  Kyrle.  He  could  only  assume  that  the  in- 
tensity of  Miss  Halcombe's  suffering  under  the  loss  of  her 
sister  had  misled  her  judgment  in  a  most  deplorable  man- 
ner, and  he  wrote  her  word  that  the  shocking  suspicion  to 
which  she  had  alluded  in  his  presence  was,  in  his  opinion, 
destitute  of  the  smallest  fragment  of  foundation  in  truth. 
Thus  the  investigation  by  Mr.  Gilmore's  partner  began 
and  ended. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Halcombe  had  returned  to  Limmeridge 
House,  and  had  there  collected  all  the  additional  informa- 
tion which  she  was  able  to  obtain. 

Mr.  Fairlie  had  received  his  first  intimation  of  his  niece's 
death  from  hi*  sister,  Mtne.  Fosco,  this  letter  also  not  con- 
taining any  exact  reference  to  dates.  He  had  sanctioned 
his  sister's  proposal  that  the  deceased  lady  should  be  laid 
in  her  mother's  grave,  in  Limmeridge  church-yard.  Coimfc 
Fosco  had  accompanied  the  remains  to  Cumberland,  and 
had  attended  the  funeral  at  Limmeridge,  which  took  place 
on  the  30th  of  July.  It  was  followed,  as  a  mark  of  respect, 
by  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  and  the  neighborhood. 
On  the  next  day  the  inscription  (originally  drawn  out,  it 
was  said,  by  the  aunt  of  the  deceased  lady,  and  submitted 
for  approval  to  her  brother,  Mr.  Fairlie)  was  engraved  on 
one  side  of  the  monument,  over  the  tomb. 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral,  and  for  one  day  after  it, 
Count  Fosco  had  been  received  as  a  guest  at  Limmeridge 
House;  but  no  interview  had  taken  place  between  Mr. 
Fairlie  and  himself,  by  the  former  gentleman's  desire. 
They  had  communicated  by  writing,  and  through  this 
medium  Count  Fosco  had  made  Mr.  Fairlie  aoquaiiited  with 
the  details  of  his  niece's  liist  illness  and  death.  The  letter 
presenting  this  information  added  no  new  facts  to  the  facts 
already  known;  but  one  very  remarkable  paragraph  was 
contained  in  the  postscript.   It  referred  to  Anne  Catherick. 

The  substance  of  the  paragraph  in  question  was  as  follows: 

It  first  informed  Mr.  Fairlie  that  x\nne  Catherick  (of 
whom  he  might  hear  full  particulars  from  Miss  Halcombe 


THE    WOMAK    IN    WHITE.  40? 

when  she  reached  Limmeridge)  had  been  traced  and  recov- 
ered in  the  neighborhood  of  Black  water  Park,  and  had 
been,  for  the  second  time,  placed  under  the  charge  of  the 
medical  man  from  whose  custody  she  had  once  escaped. 

This  was  the  first  part  of  the  postscript.  The  second 
part  warned  Mr.  Fairlie  that  Anne  Catherick's  mental 
malady  had  been  aggravated  by  her  long  freedom  from 
control,  and  that  the  insane  hatred  and  distrust  of  Sir 
Percival  Glyde,  which  had  been  one  of  her  most  marked 
delusions  in  former  times,  still  existed,  under  a  newly  ac- 
quired form.  The  unfortunate  woman's  last  idea  in  con- 
nection with  Sir  Percival  was  the  idea  of  annoying  and  dis- 
tressing him,  and  of  elevating  herself,  as  she  supposed,  in 
the  estimation  of  the  patients  and  nurses,  by  assuming  the 
character  of  his  deceased  wife,  the  schemes  of  this  persona- 
tion having  evidently  occurred  to  her  after  a  stolen  inter- 
view which  she  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  with  Lady  Olyde, 
and  at  which  she  had  observed  the  extraordinary  accidental 
likeness  between  the  deceased  lady  and  herself.  It  was  to 
the  last  degree  improbable  that  she  would  succeed  a  second 
time  in  escaping  from  the  Asylum;  but  it  was  just  possible 
she  might  find  some  means  of  annoying  the  late  Lady 
Clyde's  relatives  with  letters;  and,  in  that  case,  Mr.  Fairlie 
was  warned  beforehand  how  to  receive  them. 

The  postscript,  expressed  in  these  terms,  was  shown  to 
Miss  Halcombe  when  she  arrived  at  Limmeridge.  There 
were  also  placed  in  her  possession  the  clothes  Lady  Glyde 
had  worn,  and  the  other  effects  she  had  brought  with  her 
to  her  aunt's  house.  They  had  been  carefully  collected 
and  sent  to  Cumberland  by  Mme.  Fosco. 

Such  was  the  posture  of  aflairs  when  Miss  Halcombe 
reached  Limmeridge,  in  the  early  part  of  September. 

Shortly  afterward  she  was  confined  to  her  room  by  a  re- 
lapse, her  weakened  physical  energies  giving  way  under  the 
severe  mental  affliction  from  which  she  was  now  suffering. 
On  getting  stronger  again,  in  a  month's  time,  her  suspicion 
of  the  circumstances  described  as  attending  her  sister's 
death  still  remained  unshaken.  She  had  heard  nothing, 
in  the  interim,  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde;  but  letters  had 
reached  her  from  Mme.  Fosco,  makmg  the  most  affec- 
tionate inquiries  on  the  part  of  her  husband  ard  herself. 
Instead  of  answering  these  letters,  Miss  Halcombe  ''.aused 


408  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

the  house  in  St.  John's  Wood,  and  the  proceedings  of  ita 
inmates,  to  be  privately  watched. 

Nothing  doubtful  was  discovered.  The  same  result  at- 
tended the  next  investigation,  which  were  secretly  instituted, 
on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Eubelle.  She  had  arrived  in  Lon- 
don about  six  mouths  before,  with  her  husband.  They  had 
come  from  Lyons,  and  they  had  taken  a  house  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Leicester  Square,  to  be  fitted  up  as  a  boarding- 
house  for  foreigners,  who  were  expected  to  visit  England 
in  large  numbers  to  see  the  Exhibition  of  1851.  Nothing 
was  known  against  husband  or  wife  in  the  neighborhood. 
They  were  quiet  people,  and  they  had  paid  their  way  honestly 
up  to  the  present  time.  The  final  inquiries  related  to  Sir  Per- 
cival  Glyde.  He  was  settled  in  Paris,  and  living  there 
quietly,  "in  a  small  circle  of  English  and  French  friends. 

Foiled  at  all  points,  but  still  not  able  to  rest.  Miss  Hal- 
combe  next  determined  to  visit  the  Asylum  in  which  she 
then  supposed  Anne  Catherick  to  be  for  the  second  time 
confined.  She  had  felt  a  strong  curiosity  about  the  woman 
in  former  days;  and  she  was  now  doubly  interested — first, 
in  ascertaining  whether  the  report  of  Anne  Catherick's 
attempted  impersonation  of  Lady  Glyde  was  true;  and, 
secondly  (if  it  proved  to  be  true),  in  discovering  for  herself 
what  the  poor  creature's  real  motives  were  for  attempting 
the  deceit. 

Although  Count  Fosco's  letter  to  Mr.  Fairlie  did  not  men- 
tion the  address  of  the  Asylum,  that  important  omission  cast 
no  ditticulties  in  Miss  Halcombe's  way.  When  Mr.  Hart- 
right  had  met  Anne  Catherick  at  Limmeridge,  she  had 
informed  him  of  the  locality  in  wbich  the  house  was  situ- 
ated; and  Miss  Halcombe  had  noted  down  the  direction  in 
her  diary,  with  all  the  other  particulars  of  the  interview, 
exactly  as  she  heard  them  from  Mr.  Hartright's  own  lips. 
Accordingly,  she  looked  back  at  the  entry,  and  extracted 
the  address;  furnished  herself  with  the  Count's  letter  to 
Mr.  Fairlie,  as  a  species  of  credential  which  might  be  useful 
to  her;  and  started  by  herself  for  the  Asylum,  on  the  elev- 
enth of  October. 

She  passed  the  night  of  the  eleventh  in  London.  It  had 
been  her  intention  to  sleep  at  the  house  inhabited  by  Lady 
Clyde's  old  governess;  but  Mrs.  Vesey's  agitation  at  the 
siglit  of  her  lost  pupil's  nearest  and  dearest  friend  wa^  ^i 
distressing  that    Miss   Halcombe  considerately    refraiucvl 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  409 

from  remaiaing  in  her  presence,  and  removed  to  a  respect- 
able boardiiig-liouse,  recomuiended  by  Mrs.  Vesey's  married 
sister.  The  next  day  she  proceeded  to  the  Asylum,  which 
was  situated  not  far  from  London,  on  the  northern  side  of 
the  metropolis, 

She  was  immediately  admitted  to  see  the  proprietor. 

At  first  he  appeared  to  be  decidedly  unwilling  to  let  her 
communicate  wjth  his  patient.  But  on  her  showing  him 
the  postscript  to  Count  Fosco's  letter — on  her  reminding 
him  that  she  was  the  "  Miss  Halcombe  "  there  referred  to; 
that  she  was  a  near  relative  of  the  deceased  Lady  Glyde; 
and  that  she  was  therefore  naturally  interested,  for  family 
reasons,  in  observing  for  herself  the  extent  of  Anne  Cath- 
erick's  delusion  in  relation  to  her  late  sister — the  tone  and 
manner  of  the  owner  of  the  Ayslum  altered,  and  he  withdrew 
his  objections.  He  probably  fcdt  that  a  continued  refusal, 
under  these  circumstances,  would,  not  only  be  an  act  of 
discourtesy  in  itself,  but  would  also  imply  that  the  proceed- 
ings in  his  establishment  were  not  of  a  nature  to  bear  in- 
vestigation by  respectable  strangers. 

Miss  Halcombe 's  own  impression  was  that  the  owner  of 
the  Asylum  had  not  been  received  into  the  confidence  of 
Sir  Percival  and  the  Count.  His  consenting  at  all  to  let 
her  visit  his  patient  seemed  to  afford  one  proof  of  this,  and 
his  readiness  in  making  admissions  which  could  scarcely 
have  escaped  the  lips  of  an  accomplice  certainly  appeared 
to  furnish  another. 

For  example,  in  the  course  of  the  introductory  conversa- 
tion which  took  place,  he  informed  Miss  Halcombe  that 
Anne  Catherick  had  been  brought  back  to  him,  with  the 
necessary  order  and  certificates,  by  Count  Fosco,  on  the 
twenty-seventh  of  July,  the  Count  also  producing  a  letter 
of  explanations  and  instructions  signed  by  Sir  Percival 
Glyde.  On  receiving  his  inmate  again,  the  proprietor  of 
the  Asylum  acknowledged  that  he  had  observed  some  curi- 
ous personal  changes  in  her.  Such  changes,  no  doubt, 
were  not  without  precedent  in  his  experience  of  persons 
mentally  afflicted.  Insane  people  were  often,  at  one  time, 
outwardly  as  well  as  inwardly,  unlike  what  they  were  at 
another;  the  change  from  better  to  worse,  or  from  worse  to 
better,  in  the  madness,  having  a  necessary  tendency  to  pro- 
duce alterations  of  appearance  externally.  He  allowed  for 
these;  and  he  allowed  also  for  the  modification  in  the  foria 


410  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

of  Aune  Catherick's  delusion,  which  was  reflected,  no 
doiibL,  in  her  manner  and  expression.  But  lie  was  still 
perplexed,  at  times,  by  certain  differences  between  his 
patient  before  she  had  escaped  and  his  patient  since  she  had 
been  brought  back.  Those  diU'erences  were  too  minute  to 
be  described.  He  could  not  say,  of  course,  that  she  was 
absolutely  altered  in  height  or  shape  or  complexion,  or  iu 
the  color  of  her  hair  and  eyes,  or  in  the  general  form  of 
her  face;  the  ciiange  was  something  that  he  felt,  more  than 
something  that  he  saw.  In  short,  ihe  case  had  been  a 
puzzle  from  the  first,  and  one  more  perplexity  was  added 
to  it  now. 

It  can  not  be  said  that  this  conversation  led  to  the  result 
of  even  partially  preparing  Miss  Halcombe's  mind  for 
wiiat  was  to  come.  But  it  produced,  nevertheless,  a  ver}' 
serious  effect  upon  her.  She  was  so  completely  unnerved 
by  it  that  some  little  time  elapsed  before  she  coidd  stmi- 
mon  composure  enough  to  follow  the  proprietor  of  the 
Asylum  to  that  part  of  the  house  in  which  the  inmates 
were  confined. 

On  inquiry,  it  turned  out  that  the  supposed  Anne  Cath- 
erick  was  then  taking  exei-cise  in  the  grounds  attached  to 
the  establishment.  One  of  the  nurses  volunteered  to  con- 
duct Miss  Halcombe  to  the  place,  the  proprietor  of  the 
Asylum  remaining  in  the  house  for  a  few  minutes  to  at- 
tend to  a  case  which  required  his  services,  and  then  engag- 
ing to  join  his  visitor  in  the  grounds. 

The  nurse  led  Miss  Halcombe  to  a  distant  part  of  the 
property,  which  was  prettily  laid  out,  and,  after  looking 
about  her  a  little,  turned  into  a  turf-walk,  shaded  by  a 
shrubbery  on  either  side.  About  half-way  down  this  walk 
two  women  were  slowly  approaching.  The  nurse  pointed 
to  them  and  said,  "  There  is  Anne  Catherick,  ma'am,  with 
the  attendant  who  waits  on  her.  The  attendant  will  an- 
swer any  questions  you  wish  to  put."  With  those  words 
the  nurse  left  her,  to  return  to  the  duties  of  the  house. 

Miss  Halcombe  advanced  on  her  side,  and  the  women 
advanced  on  theirs.  When  they  were  within  a  dozen  paces 
of  each  other,  one  of  the  women  stopped  for  an  instant, 
looked  eagerly  at  the  strange  lady,  shook  off  the  nurse's 
grasp  on  her,  and  the  next  moment  rushed  into  Miss  Hal- 
combe's arms.  In  that  moment  Miss  Halcombe  recognized 
her  aister — recognized  the  dead-alive. 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  411 

Fortunately  for  the  success  of  the  measures  taken  subse- 
quently, no  one  was  present  at  that  aioment  but  the  nurae. 
She  was  a  young  woman;  and  she  was  so  startled  that  she 
was  at  first  quite  mcapah'o'  of  interfering.  When  she  was 
able  to  do  so,  her  whole  services  were  required  by  Mias  Hal- 
combe,  who  had  for  the  moment  sunk  altogether  in  the 
effort  to  keep  her  own  senses  under  the  shock  of  the  dis- 
covery. After  waiting  a  few  minutes  in  the  fresh  air  and 
the  cool  shade,  her  natural  energy  and  courage  helped  her 
a  little,  and  she  became  sufficiently  mistress  of  herself  to 
feel  the  necessity  of  recalling  her  presence  of  mind  for  her 
unfortunate  sister's  sake. 

She  obtained  permission  to  speak  alone  with  the  patient, 
on  condition  that  they  both  remained  well  within  the 
nurse's  view.  There  was  no  time  for  questions — there 
Was  only  time  for  Miss  Ilalcombe  to  impress  on  the  unhap- 
py lady  the  necessity  of  controlling  herself,  and  to  assure 
her  of  immediate  help  and  rescue  if  she  did  so.  The  pros- 
pect of  escaping  from  the  Asylum  by  obedience  to  her  sis- 
ter's directions  was  sufficient  to  quiet  Lady  Glyde,  and  to 
make  her  understand  what  was  required  of  her.  Miss 
Halcombe  next  returned  to  the  nurse,  placed  all  the  gold 
she  then  had  in  her  pocket  (three  sovereigns)  in  the  nurse's 
hands,  and  asked  when  and  where  she  could  speak  to  her 
alone. 

The  woman  was  at  first  surprised  and  distrustful.  But 
on  Miss  Halcombe's  declaring  that  she  only  wanted  to  put 
some  questions  which  she  was  too  much  agitated  to  ask  at 
that  moment,  and  that  she  had  no  intention  of  misleading 
the  nurse  into  any  dereliction  of  duty,  the  woman  took  the 
money,  and  proposed  three  o'clock  on  the  next  day  as  the 
time  for  the  interview.  She  might  then  slip  out  for  half 
in  hour,  after  the  patients  had  dined,  and  she  would  meet 
the  lady  in  a  retired  place  outside  the  high  north  wall  which 
screened  the  grounds  of  the  house.  Miss  Halcombe  had 
only  time  to  assent  and  to  whisper  to  her  sister  that  she 
should  hear  from  her  on  the  next  day,  when  the  proprietor 
of  the  Asylum  joined  them.  He  noticed  his  visitor's  agi- 
tation, which  Miss  Halcombe  accounted  for  by  saying  that 
her  interview  with  Anne  Catherick  had  a  little  startled  her 
at  first.  She  took  her  leave  as  soon  after  as  possible — 
that  is  to  say,  as  soon  as  she  could  summon  courage  to 
force  herself  from  the  presence  of  her  unfortunate  sister. 


il2  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

A  very  little  reflection,  when  the  capacity  to  reflect  re- 
tui-ned,  couviuced  her  that  any  attempt  to  identify  Lady 
Glyde  and  to  rescue  her  by  legal  means  would,  even  if  suc- 
cesdful,  involve  a  delay  that  might  be  fatal  to  her  sister's 
intellects,  which  were  shaken  already  by  the  horror  of  the 
situation  to  which  she  had  been  consigned.  By  the  time 
lVIiss  Halcombe  had  got  back  to  Loudon  she  had  deter- 
mined to  effect  Lady  Glyde's  escape  privately,  by  means  of 
the  nurse. 

She  went  at  once  to  her  stock-broker,  and  sold  out  of  the 
funds  all  the  little  property  she  possessed,  amountiug  to 
rather  less  than  sev«n  hundred  pounds.  Determined,  if 
necessary,  to  pay  the  price  of  her  sister's  liberty  with  every 
farthing  she  had  in  the  world,  she  repaired  the  next  day, 
having  the  whole  sum  about  her  in  bank-notes,  to  her  ap- 
pointment outside  the  Asylum  wall. 

The  nurse  was  there.  Miss  Halcombe  approached  the 
subject  cautiously,  by  many  preliminary  questions.  She 
discovered,  among  other  particulars,  that  the  nurse  who 
had  in  former  times  attended  on  the  true  Anne  Catherick, 
had  been  held  responsible  (although  she  was  not  to  biame 
for  it)  for  the  patient's  escape,  and  had  lost  her  place  in 
consequence.  The  same  penalty,  it  was  added,  would  at- 
tach to  the  person  then  speaking  to  her,  if  the  supposed 
Anne  Catherick  was  missing  a  second  time;  and,  moreover, 
the  nurse,  in  this  case,  had  an  especial  interest  in  keeping 
her  place.  She  was  engaged  to  be  married,  and  she  and 
her  future  husband  were  waiting  till  they  could  save,  to- 
gether, between  two  and  three  hundred  pounds  to  start  in 
business.  The  nurse's  wages  were  good,  and  she  might 
succeed,  by  strict  economy,  in  contributing  her  small  share 
toward  the  sum  required  in  two  years'  time. 

On  this  hint  Miss  Halcombe  spoke.  She  declared  that 
the  supposed  Anne  Catherick  was  nearly  related  to  her; 
that  she  had  been  placed  in  the  Asylum  under  a  fatal  mis- 
take; and  that  the  nurse  would  be  doing  a  good  and  a 
Christian  action  in  being  tiie  means  of  restoring  them  to 
each  other.  ,  Before  there  was  time  to  start  a  single  ob- 
jection, Miss  Halcombe  took  four  bank-notes  of  a  hundred 
pounds  each  from  her  pocket-book  and  offered  them  to  the 
womfiu,  as  a  compensation  for  the  risk  she  was  to  run  and 
for  the  loss  of  her  pIao«- 


THE    TTOMAN    IN    WHITE.  413 

The  nurse  hesitated,  through  sheer  incredulity  and  sur- 
prise.    Miss  Halcombe  pressed  the  point  on  her  lirmly. 

"  You  will  be  doing  a,  good  action,"  she  repeated;  "  you 
will  be  helping  the  most  injured  and  unhappy  woman 
alive.  There  is  your  marriage-portion  for  a  reward.  Bring 
her  safely  to  me  here,  and  1  will  put  these  four  bank-notes 
into  your  hand,  before  1  claim  her." 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  leti:er  saying  those  words,  which  I 
can  show  to  my  sweetheart,  wben  he  asks  how  I  got  the 
money?"  inquired  the  woman. 

"  I  will  bring  the  letter  with  me,  ready  written  and 
signed,"  answered  Miss  Halcombe. 

"  Then  Til  risk  it,"  said  the  nurse. 

"When?" 

*'  To-morrow." 

It  was  hastily  agreed  between  them  that  Miss  Halcombe 
should  return  early  the  next  morning,  and  wait  out  of 
sight,  among  the  trees — always,  however,  keeping  near  tiie 
quiet  spot  of  ground  under  the  north  wall.  The  nurse 
could  fix  no  time  for  her  appearance,  caution  requiring  that 
she  should  wait,  and  be  guided  by  circumstances.  On 
that  understanding,  they  separated. 

Miss  Halcombe  was  at  her  place,  with  the  promised  let- 
ter, and  the  promised  bank-notes,  before  ten  the  next 
morning.  She  waited  more  than  an  hour  and  a  half.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  the  nurse  came  quickly  round  the  cor- 
ner of  the  wall,  holding  Lady  Glyde  by  the  arm.  The 
moment  they  met^  Miss  Halcombe  put  the  bank-notes  and 
the  letter  into  her  hand — and  the  sisters  were  united  again. 

The  nurse  had  dressed  Lady  Glyde,  with  excellent  fore- 
thought, in  a  bonnet,  veil,  and  shawl  of  her  own.  Miss 
Halcombe  only  detained  her  to  suggest  a  means  of  turning 
the  pursuit  in  a  false  direction,  when  the  escape  was  dis- 
covered at  the  Asylum.  She  was  to  go  back  to  the  house; 
to  mention  in  the  hearing  of  the  other  nurses  that  Anne 
Catherick  had  been  inquiring,  latterly,  about  the  distance 
from  London  to  Hampshire;  to  wait  till  the  last  moment, 
before  discovery  was  inevitable;  and  then  to  give  the  alarm 
that  Anne  was  missing.  The  supposed  inquiries  about 
Hampshire,  when  communicated  to  the  owner  of  the 
Asylum,  would  lead  him  to  imagine  that  his  patient  had 
returned  to  Black  water  Park,  under  the  influence  of  the 
delusion  which  made'' her  persist  in  asserting  herself  to  be 


414  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

Lady  Glyde;  and  the  first  pursuit  would,  in  all  probability, 
be  turned  in  that  direction. 

The  nurse  consented  to  follow  these  suggestions — the 
more  readily^  as  they  offered  her  the  means  of  seeming 
herself  against  any  worse  consequences  than  the  loss  of  her 
place,  by  remaining  hi  the  Asylum,  and  so  maintaining 
the  appearance  of  innocence,  at  least.  She  at  once  re- 
turned to  the  house,  and  Miss  Halcombe  lost  no  time  iu 
taking  her  sister  back  with  her  to  London.  They  caught 
the  afternoon  train  to  Carlisle  the  same  afternoon,  and 
arrived  at  Limmeridge,  without  accident  or  difficulty  of 
any  kind,  that  night. 

During  the  latter  part  of  their  journey  they  were  alone 
iu  the  carriage,  and  Miss  Halcombe  was  able  to  collect  such 
remembrances  of  the  past  as  her  sister's  confused  and  weak- 
ened memory  was  able  to  recall.  The  terrible  story  of  the 
Conspiracy,  so  obtained,  was  presented  in  fragments,  sadly 
incoherent  in  themselves,  ai\(]  widely  detached  from  each 
other.  Imperfect  as  the  revelation  was,  it  must  neverthe- 
less be  recorded  here  before  this  explanatory  narrative 
closes  with  the  events  of  the  next  day  at  Limmeridge 
House. 

Lady  Clyde's  recollection  of  the  events  which  iollowed 
her  departure  from  Blackwafer  Park  began  with  her  arrival 
at  the  London  lerminus  of  the  South-western  Railway. 
She  had  (miitted  to  make  a  memorandum  beforehand  of 
the  day  on  which  she  took  the  journey.  All  hope  of  fixing 
that  important  date,  by  any  evidence  of  hers,  or  of  Mrs. 
Michelsou's,  must  be  given  uj)  for  lost. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  train  at  the  platform,  Lady  Glyde 
found  Count  Fosco  waiting  for  her.  He  was  at  the  car^ 
riage  door  as  soon  as  the  porter  could  open  it.  The  tram 
was  unusually  crowded,  and  there  was  great  confusion  in 
getting  the  luggage.  Some  person  whom  Count  Fosco 
brought  with  him  procured  the  luggage  which  belonged  to 
Lady  Glyde.  It  was  marked  with  her  name.  She  drove 
away  alone  with  the  Count  iu  a  vehicle  which  she  did  not 
particularly  notice  at  the  time. 

Her  first  question,  on  leaving  the  terminus,  referred  to 
Miss  Halcombe.  The  Count  itiformcd  hf^r  that  Miss  Hal- 
combe had  not  yet  gone  to  Cumberland;  after-consideration 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  415 

having  caused  him  to  doubt  the  prudence  of  her  taking  so 
long  a  journey  without  some  days'  previous  rest. 

Lady  Glyde  next  inquired  whether  her  sister  was  then 
staying  in  the  Count's  house.  Jler  recollection  of  the  an- 
swer was  confused,  her  only  distinct  impression  in  relation 
to  it  being  that  the  Count  declared  he  was  then  taking  her 
to  see  Miss  Halcombe.  Lady  Clyde's  experience  of  London 
was  so  limited  that  she  could  not  tell,  at  the  time,  through 
what  streets  they  were  driving.  But  they  never  left  the 
streets,  and  they  never  passed  any  gardens  or  trees.  When 
the  carriage  stopped,  it  stopped  in  a  small  street,  behind  a 
square — a  square  in  which  there  were  shops,  and  public 
buildings,  and  many  people.  From  these  recollections  (of 
which  Lady  Glyde  was  certain)  it  seems  quite  clear  that 
Count  Fosco  did  not  take  her  to  his  own  re?inence,  in  the 
suburb  of  St.  John's  Wood. 

They  entered  the  house,  and  went  upstairs  to  a  back 
room,  either  on  the  first  or  second  floor.  The  luggage  was 
carefully  brought  in.  A  female  servant  opened  the  door, 
and  a  man  with  a  dark  beard,  apparently  a  foreigner,  met 
them  in  the  hall,  and  with  great  politeness  showed  them 
the  way  upstairs.  In  answer  to  Lady  Clyde's  inquiries, 
the  Count  assured  her  that  Miss  Halcombe  was  in  the 
house,  and  that  she  should  be  immediately  informed  of 
her  sister's  arrival.  He  and  the  foreigner  then  went  away 
and  left  her  by  herself  in  the  room.  It  was  poorly  fur- 
nished as  a  sitting-room,  and  it  looked  out  on  the  backs  of 
houses. 

The  place  was  remarkably  quiet;  no  footsteps  went  up 
or  down  the  stairs — she  only  heard  in  the  room  beneatii 
her  a  dull,  rumbling  sound  of  men's  voices  talking.  Be- 
fore she  had  been  long  left  alone,  the  Count  returned,  to 
explain  that  Miss  Halcombe  was  then  taking  a  rest,  and 
could  not  be  disturbed  for  a  little  while.  He  was  accom- 
panied into  the  room  by  a  gentleman  (an  Englishman) 
whom  he  begged  to  present  as  a  friend  at  his. 

After  this  singular  introduction — in  the  course  of  which 
no  names,  to  the  best  of  Lady  Clyde's  recollection,  had 
been  mentioned — she  was  left  alone  with  the  stranger.  He 
was  perfectly  civil;  but  he  startled  and  confused  her  by 
some  odd  questions  about  herself,  and  by  looking  at  her, 
while  he  asked  them,  in  a  strange  manner.  After  remain- 
'.ng  a  short  time,  he  went  out;  and  a  minute  or  two  after- 


416  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

ward  a  second  stranger — also  an  Englishman — came  in. 
This  person  introduced  himself  as  another  friend  of  Couui 
Foscu's;  and  he,  in  his  turn,  looked  at  her  very  oddly,  and 
asked  some  curious  questions — never,  as  well  as  she  could 
remember,  addressing  her  by  name,  and  going  out  again, 
after  a  little  while,  like  the  first  man  By  this  time,  she 
was  so  frightened  about  herself,  and  so  uneasy  about  her 
sister,  that  she  had  thoughts  of  venturing  down-stairs  again, 
and  claiming  the  protection  and  assistance  of  the  only 
woman  she  had  seen  in  the  house— the  servant  who  an- 
swered the  door. 

Just  as  she  had  risen  from  her  chair,  the  Count  came 
back  into  the  room. 

The  moment  he  appeared,  she  asked  anxiously  how  long 
the  meeting  between  her  sister  and  herself  was  to  be  still 
delayed.  At  first  he  returned  an  evasive  answer;  but,  on 
being  pressed,  he  acknowledged,  with  great  apparent  re- 
luctance, that  Miss  Halcombe  was  by  no  means  so  well  as 
he  had  hitherto  represented  her  to  be.  His  tone  and  man- 
ner, in  making  this  reply,  so  alarmed  Lady  Glyde,  or  rather 
so  painfully  increased  the  uneasiness  which  she  had  felt  in 
the  company  of  the  two  strangers,  that  a  sudden  faintness 
overcame  her,  and  she  was  obliged  to  ask  for  a  glass  of  water. 
The  Count  called  from  the  door  for  water,  and  for  a  bottle  of 
smelling-salts.  Both  were  brought  in  by  the  foreign-look- 
ing man  with  the  beard.  The  water,  when  Lady  Glyde  at- 
tempted to  drink  it.  had  so  strange  a  taste  that  it  increased 
her  faintness,  and  she  hastily  took  the  bottle  of  salts  from 
Count  Fosco,  and  smelled  at  it.  Her  head  becr.me  giddy 
on  the  instant.  The  Count  caught  the  bottle  as  it  dropped 
out  of  her  hand,  and  the  last  impression  of  which  she  was 
conscious  was  tuat  he  held  it  to  her  nostrils  again. 

From  this  point  her  recollections  were  found  to  be  con- 
lused,  fragmentary,  and  diiiicult  to  reconcile  with  any  rea- 
sonable probability. 

Her  own  impression  was  that  she  recovered  her  senses 
later  in  the  evening;  that  she  then  left  the  house;  that  she 
went  (as  she  had  previously  arranged  to  go  at  Blackwater 
Park)  to  Mrs.  Vesey's;  that  she  drank  tea  there;  and  that 
she  passed  the  night  under  Mrs.  Vesey's  roof.  She  was 
totally  unable  to  say  how,  or  when,  or  in  what  company, 
s!ie  left  the  house  to  which  Count  Fo^^co  had  brought  her. 
But  she  persisted  iu  asserting  that  she  had  been  to  Mrs. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITS.  417 

Vesey's;  and,  still  more  extraordinary,  that  she  had  been 
helped  to  undress  and  get  to  bed  by  Mrs.  Rubelle!  She 
could  not  remember  what  the  conversation  was  at  Mrs. 
Vesey's,  or  whom  she  saw  there  besides  that  lady,  or  why 
Mrs.  Rubelle  should  have  been  present  in  the  house  to  help 
her. 

Her  recollection  of  what  happened  to  her  the  next  morn- 
iug  was  still  more  vague  and  unreliable. 

She  had  some  dim  idea  of  driving  out  (at  what  hour  she 
could  not  say)  with  Count  Fosco — and  with  Mrs.  Eubelle 
again,  for  a  female  attendant.  But  when,  and  why,  she 
left  Mrs.  Vesey  she  could  not  tell;  neither  did  she  know 
what  direction  the  carriage  drove  in,  or  where  it  set  her 
down,  or  whether  the  Count  and  Mrs.  Eubelle  did  or  did 
not  remain  with,  her  all  the  time  she  was  out.  At  this 
point  in  her  sad  story  there  was  a  total  blank.  She  had  no 
impressions  of  the  faintest  kind  to  communicate — no  idea 
whether  oue  day,  or  more  than  one  day,  had  passed — until 
she  came  to  herself  suddenly  in  a  strange  place,  surrounded 
by  women  who  were  all  uu known  to  her. 

This  was  the  Asylum.  Here  she  first  heard  herself 
called  by  Anne  Catherick's  name;  and  here,  as  a  last  re- 
markable circumstance  in  the  story  of  the  conspiracy,  her 
own  eyes  informed  her  that  she  had  Anne  Catherick's 
clothes  on.  The  nurse,  on  the  first  night  in  the  Asylum, 
had  shown  her  the  marks  on  each  article  of  her  under- 
clothing as  it  was  taken  off,  and  had  said,  not  at  all  irrita- 
bly or  unkindly,  "  Look  at  your  dwn  name  on  your  osvn 
clothes,  and  don't  worry  us  all  any  more  about  being  Lady 
Glyde.  She's  dead  and  buried;  and  you're  alive  and 
hearty.  Do  look  at  your  clothes  now!  There  it  is,  in 
good  markiug-ink;  and  there  you  will  find  it  on  all  your 
old  things,  which  we  have  kept  in  the  hous<5 — Anne  Catli- 
erick,  as  plain  as  print!"  And  there  it  was,  when  Miss 
Halcombe  examined  the  linen  her  sister  wore,  on  the  night 
of  their  arrival  at  Limmeridge  House. 

These  were  the  only  recollections — all  of  them  uncer- 
tain, and  some  of  them  contradictory — which  could  be  ex- 
tracted from  Lady  Clyde,  by  careful  questioning,  on  the 
journey  to  Cumberland.  Miss  Halcombe  abstained  from 
pressing  her  with  any  inquiries  relating  to  events  in  ihe 
Asylum;  her  mind  being  but  too  evidently  unfit  to  bear 


418  THE    -WOMAX    IX    WHITE. 

the  trial  of  revertiug  to  them.  It  was  known,  by  the 
voluntary  admission  of  the  owner  of  the  mad-house,  that 
she  was  received  there  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  July. 
From  that  date  until  the  fifteenth  of  October  (the  day  of 
her  rescue)  she  had  been  under  restraint,  her  identity  with 
Anne  Catherick  systematically  asserted,  and  her  sanity, 
from  first  to  last,  practically  denied.  Faculties  less  deli- 
cately balanced,  constitutions  less  tenderly  organized,  must 
have  suffered  under  such  an  ordeal  as  this.  Si'o  man  could 
have  gone  through  it  and  come  out  of  it  unchanged. 

Arriving  at  Limmeridge  late  on  the  evening  of  the  fif- 
teenth. Miss  Halcombe  wisely  resolved  not  to  attempt  the 
assertion  of  Lady  Clyde's  identity  until  the  next  day. 

The  first  thing  in  the  morning,  she  went  to  Mr.  Fairlie's 
room,  and,  using  all  possible  cautions  and  preparations  be- 
forehand, at  last  told  him,  in  so  many  words,  what  had 
happened.  As  soon  as  his  first  astonishment  and  alarm 
had  subsided,  he  angrily  declared  that  Miss  Halcombe  liad 
allowed  herself  to  be  duped  by  Anne  Catherick.  He  re- 
ferred her  to  Count  Fosco's  letter,  and  to  what  she  had 
herself  told  him  of  the  personal  resemblance  between  Anne 
and  his  deceased  niece;  and  he  positively  declined  to  admit 
to  his  presence,  even  for  one  minute  only,  a  madwoman 
whom  it  was  an  insult  and  an  outrage  to  have  brought  into 
his  house  at  all.     , 

Miss  Halcombe  left  the  room;  waited  till  the  first  heat 
of  her  indignation  had  jjassed  away;  decided,  on  reflection, 
that  Mr.  Fairlie  should  see  his  niece,  in  the  interests  of 
common  humanity,  before  he  closed  his  doors  on  her  as  a 
stranger;  and  thereupon,  without  a  word  of  previous 
warning,  took  Lady  Clyde  with  her  to  his  room.  The 
servant  was  posted  at  the  cloor  to  prevent  their  entrance; 
but  Miss  Halcombe  insisted  on  passing  him,  and  made  her 
way  into  Mr.  Fairlie's  presence,  leading  her  sister  by  the 
hand. 

The  scene  that  followed,  though  it  only  lasted  for  a  few 
minutes.,  was  too  painful  to  be  described — Miss  Halcombe 
herself  shrunk  from  referring  to  it.  Let  it  be  enough  to 
sav  that  ^[r.  Fairlie  declared,  in  the  most  positive  terms, 
that  he  did  not  recognize  the  woman  who  had  been  brought 
into  his  room;  that  he  saw  nothing  in  her  face  and  manner 
to  make  him  doubt  for  a  moment  that  his  niece  lay  buried 
in  Limmeridge  church-yard;  and  that  he  would  call  on  th« 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  419 

law  to  protect  him  if  before  the  day  was  over  she  was  not 
removed  from  the  house. 

Taking  the  very  worst  view  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  selfishness, 
indolence,  and  habitual  want  of  feeling,  it  was  manifestly 
impossible  to  suppose  that  he  was  capable  of  such  infamy 
as  secretly  recognizing  and  openly  disowning  his  brother's 
child.  Miss  llalcombe  humanely  and  sensibly  allowed  all 
due  force  to  the  influence  of  prejudice  and  alarm  in  pre- 
venting him  from  fairly  exercising  his  perceptions,  and  ac- 
counted for  what  had  happened  in  that  way.  But  when 
she  next  put  the  servants  to  the  test,  and  found  that  they 
too  were,  in  every  case,  uncertain,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
whether  the  lady  presented  to  them  was  their  young  mis- 
tress or  Anne  Catherick,  of  whose  resemblance  to  her  they 
had  all  heard,  the  sad  conclusion  was  inevitable  that  the 
change  produced  in  Lady  Clyde's  face  and  manner  by  her 
imprisonment  in  the  Asylum  was  far  more  serious  than 
Miss  Halcombe  had  at  first  supposed.  The  vile  deception 
which  had  asserted  her  death  defied  exposure  even  in  the 
house  where  she  was  born,  and  among  the  people  with 
whom  she  had  lived. 

In  a  le^  critical  situation  the  effort  need  not  hare  been 
given  up  as  hojjeless,  even  yet. 

For  example,  the  maid,  Fanny,  who  happened  to  be  then 
absent  from  Limmeridge,  was  expected  back  in  two  days, 
and  there  would  be  a  chance  of  gaining  her  recognition  to 
start  with,  seeing  that  she  had  been  in  much  more  constant 
communication  withher  mistress,  and  had  been  much  more 
heartily  attached  to  her  than  the  other  servants.  Again, 
Lady  Glyde  might  have  been  privately  kept  in  the  house, 
or  in  the  village,  to  wait  until  her  health  was  a  little  recov- 
ered, and  her  mind  was  a  little  steadied  again.  When  her 
memory  could  be  once  more  trusted  to  serve  her,  she  would 
naturally  refer  to  persons  and  events  in  the  past  with  a 
certainty  and  a  familiarity  which  no  impostor  could  sinru- 
jfate;  and  so  the  fact  of  her  identity,  which  her  own  appear- 
ance had  failed  to  establish,  might  subsequently  be  proved, 
with  time  to  help  her,  by  tlie  surer  test  of  her  own  vp'ords. 

But  the  circumstances  under  which  she  had  regained  her 
freedom  rendered  all  recourse  to  such  means  as  these  sim- 
ply impracticaljle.  The  pursuit  from  the  Asylum,  diverted 
to  Hampshire  for  the  time  only,  would  infallibly  next  take 
the  direction  of  Cumberland.     The  persons  appointed  to 


430  THE    WOMAK    IN    WHITE. 

seek  the  fugitive  might  arrive  at  Limmeridge  House  at  ti 
few  hours'  notice,  aud  in  Mr.  Fairlie's  present  temper  of 
mind  they  might  count  on  the  immediate  exertion  of  hii 
local  iiilluence  and  authority  to  assist  them.  The  com- 
monest consideration  for  Lady  Clyde's  safety  forced  on 
Miss  Halcombe  the  necessity  of  resigning  the  struggle  to 
do  her  justice,  and  of  removing  her  at  once  from  the  place 
of  all  others  that  was  now  most  dangerous  to  her — the 
neighborhood  of  her  own  home. 

An  immediate  return  to  London  was  the  first  and  wisest 
measure  of  security  which  suggested  itself.  In  the  great 
city  all  traces  of  them  might  be  most  speedily  and  most 
surely  etfaced.  There  were  no  preparations  to  make — no 
farewell  words  of  kindness  to  exchange  with  any  one.  On 
the  afternoon  of  that  memorable  day  of  the  sixteenth,  Miss 
Halcombe  roused  her  sister  to  a  last  exertion  of  courage; 
and,  without  a  living  soul  to  wish  them  well  at  parting, 
the  two  took  their  way  into  the  world  alone,  and  turned 
their  backs  forever  on  Limmeridge  House. 

They  had  passed  the  hill  above  the  church-yard,  when 
Lady  Glyde  insisted  on  turning  back  to  look  her  last  at  her 
mother's  grave.  Miss  Halcombe  tried  to  shake  her  resolu- 
tion, but  in  this  one  instance  tried  in  vain.  She  was  im- 
movable, Her  dim  eyes  lighted  with  a  sudden  fire,  and 
flashed  through  the  veil  that  iiung  over  them;  her  wasted 
fingers  strengthened,  moment  by  moment,  round  the 
friendly  arm  by  which  they  had  held  so  listlessly  till  this 
time.  1  believe  in  my  soul  that  the  Hand  of  God  was 
pointing  their  way  back  to  them,  and  that  the  most  inno- 
cent and  the  most  afflicted  of  His  creatures  was  chosen,  in 
that  dread  moment,  to  see  it. 

They  retraced  their  steps  to  the  burial-ground,  and  by 
that  act  sealed  the  future  of  our  three  lives. 


III. 


This  was  the  story  of  the  past — the  story  so  far  as  we 
knew  it  then. 

Two  obvious  conclusions  presented  themselves  to  my 
mind  after  hearing  it.  In  the  first  place,  I  saw  darkly 
what  the  nature  of  (he  conspiracy  had  been;  lunv  chanci's 
had    been    watched,   aud    how    citcumstaact.3    hud    beeu 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  421 

handled  to  insure  impunity  to  a  daring  and  an  intricate 
crime.  While  all  deUiils  were  still  a  mystery  to  me,  the 
vile  manner  in  which  the  personal  resemblance  between  the 
woman  in  white  and  Lady  Glyde  had  been  turned  to  ac- 
count was  clear  beyond  a  doubt.  It  was  plain  that  Anne 
Catherick  had  been  introduced  into  Count  Fosco's  house 
as  Lady  Glyde;  it  was  plain  that  Lady  Glyde  had  taken  the 
dead  woman's  place  in  the  Asylum — the  substitution  hav- 
ing been  so  managed  as  to  make  innocent  joeople  (the  doc- 
tor and  the  two  servants  certainly,  and  the  ow^ier  of  the 
mad-house  in  all  probability)  accomplices  in  the  crime. 

The  second  conclusion  came  as  the  necessary  consequence 
of  the  first.  We  three  had  no  mercy  to  expect  from  Count 
Fosco  and  Sir  Percival  Glyde.  The  success  of  the  con- 
spiracy had  brought  with  it  a  clear  gain  to  those  two  men 
of  thirty  thousand  pounds — twenty  thousand  to  one,  ten 
thousand  to  the  other,  through  his  wife.  They  had  that 
interest,  as  well  as  other  interests,  in  insuring  their  im- 
punity from  exposure;  and  they  would  leave  no  stone  un- 
turned, no  sacrifice  unattempted,  no  treachery  untried,  to 
discover  the  place  in  which  tlieir  victim  was  concealed,  and 
to  part  her  from  the  only  friends  she  had  in  >he  world — 
Marian  Halcombe  and  myself. 

The  sense  of  this  serious  peril — a  peril  which  every  day 
and  every  hour  might  bring  nearer  and  nearer  to  us — was 
the  one  influence  that  guided  me  in  fixing  the  place  of  our 
retreat.  I  chose  it  in  the  far  East  of  London,  where  there 
were  fewest  idle  people  to  lounge  and  look  about  them  in 
the  streets.  I  chose  it  in  a  poor  and  a  populous  neighbor- 
hood— because  the  harder  the  sti  uggle  for  existence  among 
the  men  and  women  about  us,  the  less  the  risk  of  their 
having  the  time  or  taking  tlie  pains  to  notice  chance 
strangers  who  came  among  them.  These  were  the  great 
advantages  I  looked  to;  but  our  locality  was  a  gain  to  us 
also  in  another  and  a  hardly  less  important  respect.  We 
could  live  cheaply  by  the  daily  work  of  my  hands,  and 
could  save  every  farthing  we  possessed  to  forward  the  pur- 
pose—  the  righteous  purpose  of  redressing  an  infamous 
wrong — which,  from  first  to  last,  1  now  kept  steadily  in 
view. 

In  a  week's  time  Marian  Halcombe  and  1  had  settled 
how  the  course  of  our  new  lives  should  be  directed. 

There  were  no  other  lodgers  in  the  house,  and  we  had 


42!8  THE    "WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

the  means  of  going  in  and  out  without  passing  through  the 
shop.  I  arranged,  for  the  present  at  least,  that  neither 
Marian  nor  Laura  should  stir  outside  the  doOr  without  my 
being  with  them:  and  that,  in  my  absence  from  home,  they 
should  let  no  one  into  their  rooms,  on  any  pretense  what- 
ever. This  rule  established,  1  went  to  a  friend  whom  1  had 
known  in  former  days — a  wood-engraver  in  large  practice 
— to  seek  for  employment,  telling  him  at  the  same  time 
that  I  had  reasons  for  wishing  to  remain  unknown. 

He  at  once  concluded  that  I  was  in  debt,  expressed  his 
regret  in  the  usual  forms,  and  then  promised  to  do  what 
he  could  to  assist  me.  I  left  his  false  impression  undis- 
turbed, and  accepted  the  work  he  had  to  give.  He  knew 
that  he  could  trust  my  experience  and  my  industry.  I  had 
what  he  wanted,  steadiness  and  facility;  and  though  my 
earnings  were  but  small,  they  sufficed  for  our  necessities. 
As  soon  as  we  could  feel  certain  of  this,  Marian  Halcombe 
and  I  put  together  what  we  possessed.  She  had  between 
two  and  three  hundred  pounds  left  of  her  own  property, 
and  I  had  nearly  as  much  remaining  from  the  purchase- 
money  obtained  by  the  sale  of  my  drawing-master's  prac- 
tice before  1  left  England.  Together  we  made  up  between 
us  more  than  four  hundred  pounds.  I  deposited  this  little 
fortune  in  a  bank:,  to  be  kept  for  the  expense  of  those  secret 
inquiries  and  investigations  which  1  was  determined  to  set 
on  foot,  and  to  carry  on  by  myself  if  1  could  find  no  one 
to  help  me.  We  calculated  our  weekly  expenditure  to  the 
last  farthing,  and  we  never  touched  our  little  fund  exce^st 
in  Laura's  interests  and  for  Laura's  sake. 

The  housework,  which,  if  we  had  dared  trust  a  stranger 
iiear  us,  would  have  been  done  by  a  servant,  was  taken 
on  the  first  day  taken  as  her  own  right,  by  Marian  Hal- 
combe. "  What  a  woman's  hands  are  fit  for,"  she  said, 
"early  and  late  these  hands  of  mine  shall  do."  They 
trembled  as  she  held  them  out.  The  wasted  arms  told 
their  sad  story  of  the  past  as  she  turned  up  the  sleeves  of 
the  poor  plain  dress  that  she  wore  for  safety's  sake;  but 
the  unquenchable  spirit  of  the  woman  burned  bright  in  her 
even  yet.  1  savv  the  big  tears  rise  thick  in  her  eyes  and 
fall  slowly  over  her  cheeks  as  she  looked  at  me.  She 
dashed  them  away  with  a  touch  of  her  old  energy,  and 
Bmiled  with  a  faint  reileetion  of  her  old  good  spirits. 
"  Don't  doubt   my  courage,  Walter/'  she  pleaded;  "  it's 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  423 

my  weakness  that  cries,  not  me.  The  housework  shall  con- 
quer it,  if  /can't.''  And  she  kept  her  word — the  victory 
was  won  when  we  met  in  the  evening,  and  she  sat  down  to 
rest.  Her  large,  steady,  black  eyes  looked  at  me  with  a 
flash  of  their  bright  firmness  of  by-gone  days.  "  I  am  not 
quite  broken  down  yet,^' she  said;  "  I  am  worth  trusting 
with  my  share  of  the  work.''  Before  I  could  answer,  she 
added,  in  a  whisper,  "  And  worth  trusting  with  my  share 
in  the  risk  and  the  danger  too.  Kemember  that,  if  the 
time  comes." 

I  did  remember  it,  when  the  time  came. 

As  early  as  the  end  of  October  the  daily  course  of  our 
lives  had  assumed  its  settled  direction,  and  we  three  were 
as  completely  isolated  in  our  place  of  concealment  as  if  the 
house  we  lived  in  had  been  a  desert  island,  and  the  great 
net-work  of  streets  and  the  thousands  of  out  fellow-creat- 
ures all  around  us  the  waters  of  an  illimitable  sea.  I  could 
now  reckon  on  some  leisure  time  for  considering  what  my 
future  plan  of  action  should  be,  and  how  I  might  arm  my- 
self most  securely  at  the  outset  for  the  coming  struggle 
with  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count. 

I  gave  up  all  hope  of  appealing  to  my  recognition  of 
Laura,  or  to  Marian's  recognition  of  her,  in  proof  of  her 
identity.  If  we  had  loved  her  less  dearly,  if  the  instinct 
implanted  in  us  by  that  love  had  not  been  far  more  certain 
than  any  exercise  of  reasoning,  far  keener  than  any  process 
of  observation,  even  we  might  have  hesitated,  on  first  see- 
ing her. 

The  outward  changes  wrought  by  the  suffering  and  the 
terror  of  the  past  had  fearfully,  almost  hopelessly,  strength- 
ened the  fatal  resemblance  between  Anne  Catherick  and 
herself.  In  my  narrative  of  events  at  the  time  of  my  resi- 
Jence  in  Limmeridge  House,  I  have  recorded  from  my 
own  observation  of  the  two,  how  the  likeness,  striking  as  it 
was  when  viewed  generally,  failed  in  many  important 
points  of  similiarity  when  tested  in  detail.  In  those  foimer 
days,  if  they  had  been  seen  together,  side  by  side,  no 
person  could  for  a  moment  have  mistaken  (hem  one  for 
the  other — as  has  happened  often  in  the  instance  of  twins 
I  could  not  say  this  now.  The  sorrow  and  suffering  which 
I  had  once  blamed  myself  for  associating  even  by  a  passing 
th  Hight  with  the  future  of  Laura  Fairlie,  had  set  their  pro- 


i2i  THE    \^■OMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

failing  marks  on  the  youth  and  beauty  of  her  face,  and  tha 
fatal  resenihlaiice  which  I  had  once  seen  and  shuddered  at 
seeing,  in  idea  only,  was  now  a  real  and  living  resemblance 
which  asserted  itself  before  my  own  eyes.  IStrangers,  ac- 
quaintances, friends  even  who  could  not  look  at  her  as  we 
looked,  if  she  had  been  shown  to  them  in  the  first  days  of 
her  rescue  from  the  Asylum,  might  have  doubted  if  she 
were  the  Laura  Fairlie  they  had  once  seen,  and  doubted 
without  blame. 

The  one  remaining  chance,  which  1  had  at  first  thougiifc 
might  be  trusted  to  serve  us — the  chance  of  appealing  to 
her  recollection  of  persons  and  events  with  which  no  im- 
postor could  be  familiar,  was  proved,  by  the  sad  test  of  our 
later  experience,  to  be  hopeless.  Every  little  caution  that 
Marian  and  I  practiced  toward  her;  every  little  remedy  we 
tried,  to  strengthen  and  steady  slowly  the  weakened,  shaken 
faculties,  was  a  fresh  protest  in  itself  against  the  risk  of 
turning  her  mind  back  on  the  troubled  and  the  terrible 
pa>t. 

The  only  events  of  former  days  which  we  ventured  on 
encouraging  her  to  recall  were  the  little  trivial  domestic 
events  of  that  happy  time  at  Limmeridge  when  I  first  went 
there,  and  taught  her  to  draw.  The  day  when  I  roused 
those  remembrances  by  showing  her  the  sketch  of  the  sum- 
mer-house which  she  had  given  me  on  the  morning  of  our 
fai'ewell,  and  which  had  never  been  separated  from  me 
since,  was  the  birthday  of  our  first  hope.  Tenderly  and 
gradually,  the  memory  of  the  old  walks  and  drives  dawned 
upon  her;  and  the  poor,  weary,  pining  eyes  looked  at 
Marian  and  at  me  with  a  new  interest,  with  a  faltering 
thoughtfulness  in  them,  which  from  that  moment  we  cher- 
ished and  kept  alive.  1  bought  her  a  little  box  of  colors, 
and  a  sketch-book  like  the  old  sketch-book  which  I  had 
seen  in  her  hands  on  the  morning  when  we  first  met. 
Once  again — oh,  me,  once  again! — at  spare  hours  saved 
from  my  work,  in  the  dull  London  light,  in  the  poor  Lon- 
don room,  I  sat  by  her  side,  to  guide  the  faltering  touch, 
to  help  the  feeble  hand.  Day  by  day,  I  raised  and  raised 
the  new  interest  till  its  place  in  the  blank  of  her  existence 
was  at  last  assured — till  she  could  think  of  her  drawing, 
and  talk  of  it,  and  patiently  practice  it  by  herself,  with 
some  faint  reflection  of  the  innocent  pleasure  in  my  en- 
couragement, the  growing  enjoyment  in  her  own  progress, 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  425 

which  belonged  to  the  lost  life  and  the  lost  happiness  of 
past  days. 

We  helped  her  mind  slowly  by  this  simple  means;  we 
took  her  out  between  us  to  walk,  on  fine  days,  in  a  quiet 
old  City  square,  near  at  hand,  wiiere  there  was  nothing  to 
confuse  or  alarm  her;  we  spared  a  few  pounds  from  the 
fund  at  the  banker's  to  get  her  wine,  and  the  delicate 
strengthening  food  that  she  required;  we  amused  her  in 
the  evenings  with  children's  games  at  cards,  with  scrap- 
books  full  of  prints  which  I  borrowed  from  the  engraver 
who  employed  me — by  these,  and  other  trilling  attentions 
like  them,  we  composed  her  and  steadied  her,  and  hoped 
all  things,  as  cheerfully  as  we  could,  from  time  and  care, 
and  love  that  never  neglected  and  never  despaired  of  her. 
But  to  take  her  mercilessly  from  seclusion  and  repose;  to 
confront  her  with  strangers;  to  rouse  the  painful  impres- 
sions of  her  past  life  which  we  had  so  carefully  hushed  to 
rest — this,  even  in  her  own  interests,  we  dared  not  do. 
Whatever  sacrifices  it  cost,  whatever  long,  weary,  heart- 
breaking delays  it  involved,  the  wrong  that  had  been  in- 
flicted on  her,  if  mortal  means  could  grapple  it,  must  be 
redressed  without  her  knowledge  and  without  her  help. 

This  resolution  settled,  it  was  next  necessary  to  decide 
how  the  first  risk  should  be  ventured,  and  what  the  first 
proceedings  should  be. 

After  consulting  with  Marian,  1  resolved  to  begin  by 
gathering  together  as  many  facts  as  could  be  collected — 
then  to  ask  the  advice  of  Mr.  Kyrle  (whom  we  knew  we 
could  trust);  and  to  ascertain  from  him,  in  the  first  in- 
stance, if  the  legal  remedy  lay  fairly  within  our  reach.  1 
owed  it  to  Laura's  interests  not  to  stake  her  whole  future 
on  my  own  unaided  exertions,  so  long  as  there  was  th? 
faintest  prospect  of  strengthening  our  position  by  obtain^ 
ing  reliable  assistance  of  any  kind. 

The  first  source  of  information  to  which  I  applied  wi> 
the  journal  kept  at  Blackwater  Park  by  Marian  Halcombe. 
There  were  passages  in  this  diary,  relating  to  myself,  which 
she  thought  it  best  that  I  should  not  see.  Accordingly,  she 
read  to  me  from  the  manuscript,  and  I  took  the  ncces  I 
wanted  as  she  went  on.  We  could  only  find  time  to  pur- 
sue this  occupation  by  sitting  up  late  at  night.  Three 
nights  were  devoted  to  the  purpose,  and  were  er  High  to 
put  me  in  possession  of  all  that  Marian  could  tell. 


426  THE  woma:n^  m  white. 

My  next  proceeding  was  to  gain  as  much  additional  eri- 
dence  as  1  could  procure  from  other  people,  without  excit- 
ing suspicion.  1  went  myself  to  Mrs.  Vesey,  to  ascertain 
if  Laura's  impression  of  having  slept  there  was  correct  or 
not.  In  this  case,  from  consideration  for  Mrs.  Vesey's  age 
and  infirmity,  and  in  all  subsequent  cases  of  the  same  kind 
from  considerations  of  caution,  1  kept  our  real  position  a 
secret,  and  was  always  careful  to  speak  of  Laura  as  "  the 
late  Lady  Glyde." 

Mrs.  Vesey's  answer  to  my  inquiries  only  confirmed  the 
apprehensions  which  1  had  previously  felt.  Laura  had 
certainly  written  to  say  she  would  pass  the  night  under  the 
roof  of  her  old  friend— but  she  had  never  been  near  the 
house. 

Her  mind  in  this  instance,  and,  as  1  feared,  in  other  in- 
stances besides,  confusedly  presented  to  her  something 
which  she  had  only  intended  to  do  in  the  false  light  of  some- 
thing which  she  had  really  done.  The  unconscious  contra- 
diction of  herself  was  easy  to  account  for  in  this  way — but 
it  was  likely  to  lead  to  serious  results.  It  was  a  stumble 
on  the  threshold  at  starting;  it  was  a  flaw  in  the  evidence 
which  told  fatally  against  us. 

When  1  next  asked  for  the  letter  which  Laura  had  writ- 
ten to  Mrs.  Vesey  from  Blackwater  Park,  it  was  given  to 
me  without  the  envelope,  which  had  been  thrown  into  the 
waste-paper  basket,  and  long  since  destroyed.  In  the  let- 
ter itself  no  date  was  mentioned — not  even  the  day  of  the 
week.  It  only  contained  these  lines:  "  Dearest  Mrs.  Vesey, 
1  am  in  sad  distress  and  anxiety,  and  1  may  come  to  your 
house  to-morrow  night,  and  ask  for  a  bed.  I  can't  tell 
you  what  is  the  matter  in  this  letter — 1  write  it  in  such 
fear  of  being  found  out  that  I  can  fix  my  mind  on  noth- 
ing. Pray  be  at  home  to  see  me.  I  will  give  you  a  thou- 
sand kisses,  and  tell  you  everything.  Your  affectionate 
Laura."     What  help  was  there  in  those  lines?     None. 

On  returning  from  Mrs.  Vesey's,  I  instructed  Marian  to 
write  (observing  the  same  caution  which  I  practiced  my- 
self) to  Mrs.  Michelson.  She  was  to  express,  if  she  pleased, 
some  general  suspicion  of  Count  Fosco's  conduct;  and  she 
was  to  ask  the  housekeeper  to  supply  us  with  a  plain  state- 
ment of  events,  in  the  interests  of  truth.  While  we  were 
waiting  for  the  answer,  which  reached  us  in  a  week's  time, 
i  went  to  the  doctor  in  St.  John's  Wood,  introducing  my- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  4.27 

self  as  sent  by  Miss  Halcombe,  to  collect,  if  possible,  more 
particulars  of  her  sister's  last  illnesss  than  Mr.  Kyrle  had 
f(Huid  the  time  to  i^rocure.  By  Mr.  Goodricke's  assistance 
1  obtained  a  copy  of  the  certificate  of  the  death,  and  an  inter- 
view with  the  woman  (Jane  Gould)vvho  had  been  employed 
to  prepare  the  body  for  the  grave.  Through  this  person  I 
also  discovered  a  means  of  communicating  with  the  serv- 
ant, Hester  Piuhorn.  She  had  recently  left  her  place,  in 
consequence  of  a  disagreement  with  her  mistress,  and  she 
was  lodging  with  some  people  in  the  neighborhood  whom 
Mrs.  Gould  knew.  In  the  manner  here  indicated  I  ob- 
tained the  Narratives  of  the  housekeeper,  of  the  doctor,  of 
Jane  Gould,  and  of  Hester  Pinhorn,  exactly  as  they  are 
presented  in  these  pages. 

Furnished  with  such  additional  evidence  as  these  docu- 
ments atforded,  1  considered  myself  to-be  sufficiently  pre- 
pared for  a  consultation  with  Mr.  Kyrle,  and  Marian  wrote 
accordingly  to  mention  my  name  to  liim,  and  to  specify 
the  day  and  hour  at  which  1  requested  to  see  him  on  pri- 
vate business. 

There  was  time  enough  in  the  morning  for  me  to  take 
Laura  out  for  a  walk  as  usual,  and  to  see  her  quietly  set- 
tled at  her  drawing  afterward.  She  looked  up  at  me  with 
a  new  anxiety  in  her  face,  as  I  rose  to  leave  the  room,  and 
her  fingers  began  to  toy  doubtfully,  in  the  old  way,  with 
the  brushes  and  pencils  on  the  table. 

'*  You  are  not  tired  of  me  yet?''  she  said.  "  You  are 
not  going  away  because  you  are  tired  of  me?  I  will  try  to 
do  better — 1  will  try  to  get  well.  Are  you  as  fond  of  me, 
Walter,  as  you  used  to  be,  now  I  am  so  pale  and  thin,  and 
so  slow  in  learning  to  draw?" 

She  spoke  as  a  child  might  have  spoken;  she  showed  me 
her  thoughts  as  a  child  might  have  shown  them.  I  waited 
a  few  minutes  longer — waited  to  tell  her  that  she  was 
dearer  to  me  now  than  she  had  ever  been  in  the  past  times. 
"  Try  to  get  well  again,"  I  said,  encouraging  the  new  hope 
in  the  future  which  I  saw  dawning  in  her  mind;  "  try  to 
get  well  again,  for  Marian's  sake  and  for  mine." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  to  herself,  returning  to  her  drawing. 
"  I  must  try,  because  they  are  both  so  fond  of  me."  She 
suddenly  looked  up  again.  "  Don't  be  gone  long!  I  can't 
get  on  with  my  drawing,  Walter,  when  you  are  not  here  to 
help  mo." 


438  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

' '  I  shall  soon  be  back,  my  darliug — soon  be  back  to  see 

bow  you  are  getting  on.'' 

My  voice  faltered  a  little  in  spite  of  me.  1  forced  my- 
self from  the  room.  It  was  no  time,  then,  for  jjartiiig  with 
the  self-control  which  might  yet  serve  me  in  my  need  be- 
fore the  day  was  out. 

As  1  opened  the  door,  I  beckoned  to  Marian  to  follow  me 
to  the  stairs.  It  was  necesssary  to  prepare  her  for  a  result 
which  I  felt  might  sooner  or  later  follow  my  showing  my- 
self openly  in  the  streets. 

"  1  shall,  in  all  probability,  be  back  in  a  few  hours,''  I 
said;  "  and  you  will  take  care,  as  usual,  to  let  no  one  in- 
side the  doors  in  my  absence.     13ut  if  anything  happens — " 

'*  What  can  happen?"  she  interposed,  quickly.  "  Tell 
me  plainly,  Walter,  if  there  is  any  danger — and  I  shall 
know  how  to  meet  it." 

"  The  only  danger,"  I  replied,  "  is  that  Sir  Percival 
Glyde  may  have  been  recalled  to  London  by  the  news  of 
Laura's  escape.  You  are  aware  that  he  had  watched  me  be- 
fore I  left  England,  and  that  he  probably  knows  me  by 
sight,  although  1  don't  know  him?" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  looked  at  me  in 
anxious  silence.  I  saw  she  understood  the  serious  risk  that 
threatened  us. 

"  It  is  not  likely,"  I  said,  "  that  T  shall  be  seen  in  Lon- 
don again  so  soon,  either  by  Sir  Percival  himself  or  by  the 
persons  in  his  employ.  But  it  is  barely  possible  that  an 
accident  may  happen.  In  that  case,  you  will  not  be 
alarmed  if  I  fail  to  return  to-night;  and  you  will  satisfy 
any  inquiry  of  Laura's  with  the  best  excuse  that  you  cati 
make  for  me?  If  1  find  the  least  reason  to  suspect  that  I- 
am  watched,  I  will  take  good  care  that  no  spy  follows  me 
back  to  this  house.  Don't  doubt  my  return,  Marian,  how- 
ever  it  may  be  delayed — and  fear  nothing," 

"  Nothing!"  she  answered,  firmly.  "  You  shall  not  re- 
gret, Waller,  that  you  have  only  a  woman  to  help  you." 

She  paused,  and  detained  me  for  a  moment  longer. 
"  Take  care!"  she  said,  pressing  my  hand  anxiously — 
"  take  care!" 

1  left  her,  and  set  forth  to  pave  the  way  for  discovery — 
the  dark  and  doubtful  way,  which  began  at  the^lawyer's 
door. 


(THE    WOMAN    IN-    WHITE.  4^9 


IV. 

x'To  circumstance  of  the  slightest  importance  happened 
on  my  way  to  the  offices  of  Messrs.  Gilmore  aud  Kyrle,  ir 
Chancery  Lane. 

While  my  card  was  being  taken  in  to  Mr.  Kyrle,  a  con- 
sideration occurred  to  me  which  I  deeply  regretted  not  hav- 
ing thought  of  before.  The  information  derived  from 
Marian's  diary  made  it  a  matter  of  certainty  that  Count 
Fosco  had  opened  her  first  letter  from  Blackvvater  Park  to 
Mr.  Kyrle,  and  had,  by  means  of  his  wife,  intercepted  the 
second.  He  was,  therefore,  well  aware  of  the  address  of 
the  office,  and  he  would  naturally  infer  that  if  Marian 
wanted  advice  and  assistance,  after  Laura's  escape  from 
the  Asylum,  siie  would  apply  once  more  to  the  experience 
of  Mr.  Kyrle.  lu  this  case,  the  office  in  Chancery  Lane 
was  the  very  first  place  which  he  and  Sir  Percival  would 
cause  to  be  watched;  and  if  the  same  persons  were  chosen 
for  the  purpose  who  had  been  employed  to  follow  me,  be- 
fore my  departure  from  England,  the  fact  of  my  return 
would  in  all  probability  be  ascertained  on  that  very  day. 
1  had  thought,  generally,  of  the  chances  of  my  being  recog- 
nized in  the  streets;  but  the  special  risk  connected  with  the 
office  had  never  occurred  to  me  until  the  present  moment. 
It  was  too  late  now  to  repair  this  unfortunate  error  in 
judgment — too  late  to  wish  that  1  had  made  arrangements 
for  meeting  the  lawyer  in  some  place  privately  appointed 
beforehand.  1  could  only  resolve  to  be  cautious  on  leaving 
Chancery  Lane,  and  not  to  go  straight  home  again  under 
any  circumstances  whatever. 

After  waiting  a  few  minutes,  1  was  shown  into  Mr. 
Kyrle's  private  room.  He  was  a  pale,  thin,  quiet,  self- 
possessed  man,  with  a  very  attentive  eye,  a  ver}'  low  voice, 
and  a  very  undemonstrative  manner;  not  (as  I  judged) 
ready  with  his  sympathy  where  stratjgers  were  concerned, 
and  not  at  all  easy  to  disturb  in  his  professinnal  compos- 
ure. A  better  man  for  my  purpose  could  hardly  have  been 
found.  If  he  committed  himself  to  a  decision  at  all,  and 
if  the  decision  was  favorable,  the  strength  of  our  case  was 
as  good  as  proved  from  that  moment. 

"  Before  1  enter  ou  iJ»e  business  which  brings  me  here," 


430  THE    WOMAK    IN"    WHITE. 

I  said,  "  I  ought  to  warn  you,  Mr.  Kyrle,  that  the  shortest 
statement  1  can  make  of  it  may  occupy  some  little  time." 

"  My  time  is  at  Miss  Halcombe's  disposal,"  he  replied. 
*'  Where  any  interests  of  hers  are  concerned,  I  represent 
my  partner  personally,  as  well  as  professionally.  It  was  his 
request  that  1  should  do  so,  when  he  ceased  to  take  aa 
active  part  in  business." 

"  May  I  inquire  whether  Mr.  Gilmore  is  in  England?" 

"  He  is  not;  he  is  living  with  his  relatives  in  Germany. 
His  health  has  improved,  but  the  period  of  his  return  is 
still  uncertain." 

While  we  were  exchanging  these  few  preliminary  words, 
he  had  been  searching  among  the  papers  before  him,  and 
he  now  produced  from  them  a  sealed  letter.  1  thought  he 
was  about  to  hand  tlie  letter  to  me,  but,  a^iparently  chang- 
ing his  mind,  he  placed  it  by  itself  on  the  table,  settled 
himself  in  his  chair,  and  silently  waited  to  hear  what  I  had 
to  say. 

Without  wasting  a  moment  in  prefatory  words  of  any 
sort,  I  entered  on  my  narrative,  and  put  him  in  full  pos- 
session of  the  events  which  have  already  been  related  in 
these  pages. 

Lawyer  as  he  was  to  the  very  marrow  of  his  bones,  I 
startled  him  out  of  his  professional  composure.  Expres- 
sions of  incredulity  and  surprise,  which  he  could  not  re- 
press, interrupted  me  several  times,  before  1  had  done.  1 
persevered,  however,  to  the  end,  and,  as  soon  as  1  reached 
it,  boldly  asked  the  one  important  question: 

"  What  is  your  opinion,  Mr.  Kyrle?" 

He  was  too  cautious  to  commit  himself  to  an  answer 
without  taking  time  to  recover  his  self-possession  first. 

"  Before  I  give  my  opinion,"  he  said,  "  I  must  beg  per- 
mission to  clear  the  ground  by  a  few  questions," 

He  put  the  questions — sharp,  suspicious,  unbelieving 
questions,  which  clearly  showed  me,  as  they  proceeded,  that 
lie  thought  I  was  the  victim  of  a  delusion,  and  that  he 
might  even  have  doubted,  but  for  my  introduction  to  him 
by  Miss  Halcornbe,  whether  I  was  not  attempting  the  per- 
petration of  a  cunningly  designed  fraud. 

"  Do  you  believe  that  I  have  spoken  the  truth,  Mr. 
Kyrle?"  I  asked,  when  he  had  done  examining  me. 

"  So  far  as  your  own  convictions  are  concerned,  I  am 
certain  you  have  spoken  the  trutii,  '  he  replied.     "  I  have 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE.  431 

the  highest  esteem  for  Miss  Haloombe,  and  1  have  there- 
fore every  reason  to  respect  a  gentleman  whose  mediation 
^he  trusts  in  a  matter  of  this  iiind.  I  will  even  go  further, 
■f  you  like,  and  admit,  for  courtesy's  sake  and  for  argu- 
ment's sake,  that  the  identity  of  Lady  Glyde,  as  a  Jiving 
person,  is  a  proved  fact  to  Miss  Halcombe  and  yourself, 
l3ut  you  come  to  me  for  a  legal  opinion.  As  a  lawyer,  and 
as  a  lawyer  only,  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Hartright, 
that  you  have  not  the  shadow  of  a  case." 

*'  You  put  it  strongly,  Mr.  Kyrle." 

"  1  Will  try  to  put  it  plainly  as  well.  The  evidence  of 
Lady  Glyde's  death  is,  on  the  face  of  it,  clear  and  satis- 
factory. There  is  her  aunt's  testimony  to  prove  that  she 
came  to  Count  Fosco's  house,  that  she  fell  ill,  and  that  she 
:'.ied.  There  is  the  testimony  of  the  medical  certificate  to 
prove  the  death,  and  to  show  that  it  took  place  under  nat- 
ural circumstances.  There  is  the  fact  of  the  funeral  at 
Limmeridge,  and  there  is  the  assertion  of  the  inscription 
on  the  tomb.  That  is  the  case  you  want  to  overthrow. 
VV"hat  evidence  have  you  to  support  the  declaration  on  your 
side  that  the  person  who  died  and  was  buried  was  not  Lady 
Glyde?  Let  us  run  through  the  main  points  of  your  state- 
ment and  see  what  they  are  worth.  Miss  Halcombe  goes 
io  a  certain  private  Asylum,  and  there  sees  a  certain  female 
patient.  It  is  known  that  a  woman  named  Anne  Cath- 
erick,  and  bearing  an  extraordinary  personal  resemblance  to 
Lady  Glyde,  escaped  from  the  Asylum;  it  is  known  that 
the  person  received  there  last  July,  was  received  as  Anne 
Catherick  brought  back;  it  is  known  that  the  gentleman 
who  brought  her  back  warned  Mr.  Fairlie  that  it  was  part 
of  her  insanity  to  be  bent  on  personating  his  dead  niece; 
and  it  is  known  that  she  did  repeatedly  declare  herself,  in 
the  Asylum  (where  no  one  believed  her),  to  be  Lady  Glyde. 
These  are  all  facts.  What  have  you  to  set  against  them? 
Miss  Haleombe's  recognition  of  the  woman,  which  recog- 
nition after-events  invalidate  or  contradict.  Does  Miss 
Halcombe  assert  her  supposed  sister's  identity  to  the  owner 
of  the  Asylum,  and  take  legal  means  for  rescuing  her? 
No;  she  secretly  bribes  a  nurse  to  let  her  escape.  When 
the  patient  has  been  released  in  this  doubtful  manner,  and 
is  taken  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  does  he  recognize  her?  is  he  stag- 
gered for  one  instant  in  his  belief  of  his  niece's  death?  No. 
Do  the  servants  recognize  her?    No.     Is  she  kept  in  the 


432  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHTTR. 

neighborhood  to  assert  her  own  identity,  and  to  stand  the 
test  of  further  proceedings?  No;  she  is  privately  taken  to 
London,  lu  the  nieaiitiaie  you  have  recognized  her  also — 
but  you  are  not  a  relative;  you  are  not  even  an  old  friend 
of  the  family.  The  servants  contradict  you;  and  Mr, 
Fairlie  contradicts  Miss  Halcombe;  and  the  supposed  Lady 
Glyde  contradicts  herself.  She  declares  she  passed  the 
night  in  London  at  a  certain  house.  Your  own  evidence 
shows  that  she  has  never  been,  near  that  house;  and  your 
own  admission  is,  that  her  condition  of  mind  prevents  you 
from  producing  her  anywhere  to  submit  to  investigation, 
and  to  speak  for  herself.  I  pass  over  minor  j;)oints  of  evi- 
dence, on  both  sides,  to  save  time;  and  I  ask  you,  if  this 
case  were  to  go  now  into  a  court  of  law — to  go  before  a 
jury,  bound  to  take  facts  as  they  reasonably  appear — where 
are  your  proofs?" 

I  was  obliged  to  wait  and  collect  myself  before  I  could 
answer  him.  It  was  the  first  time  the  story  of  Laura  and 
the  story  of  Marian  had  been  presented  to  me  from  a 
strangei-'s  point  of  view — the  first  time  the  terrible  ob- 
stacles tha,t  lay  across  our  path  had  been  made  to  show 
themselves  in  their  true  character. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt,"  I  said,  "  that  the  facts,  as 
you  have  stated  them,  appear  to  tell  against  us;  but — " 

"  But  you  think  those  facts  can  be  explained  away,''  in- 
terposed Mr,  Kyrle.  "  Let  me  tell  you  the  result  of  my 
experience  on  that  point.  When  an  English  jury  has  to 
choose  between  a  plain  fact  on  the  surface,  and  a  long 
explanation  iinder  the  surface,  it  always  takes  the  fact,  in 
preference  to  the  explanation.  For  example.  Lady  Glyde 
(I  call  the  lady  you  represent  by  that  name  for  argument's 
sake)  declares  she  has  slept  at  a  certain  house,  and  it  ia 
proved  that  she  has  not  slept  at  that  house.  You  explain 
this  circumstance  by  entering  into  the  state  of  her  mind, 
and  deducing  from  it  a  metaphysical  conclusion.  1  don't 
say  the  conclusion  is  wrong — 1  only  say  that  the  jury  will 
take  the  fact  of  her  contradicting  herself,  in  preference  to 
any  reason  for  the  contradiction  that  you  can  offer." 

"  But  is  it  not  possible,"  I  urged,  "  by  dint  of  patienca 
and  exertion,  to  discover  additional  evidence?  Miss  HaL 
combe  and  1  have  a  few  himdred  pounds — " 

lie  looked  at  me  with  a  half-suppressed  pity,  and  shook 
his  head. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  433 

*'  Consider  the  subject,  Mr.  Hartright,  from  your  own 
point  of  view,"  he  said.  "  If  you  are  right  about  Sir  Pt-r- 
cival  Glyde  and  Count  Fosco  (which  I  don't  admit,  mind), 
every  imaginable  ditticulty  would  be  thrown  in  the  way  of 
your  getting  fresh  evidence.  Every  obstacle  of  litigation 
would  be  raised;  every  point  in  the  case  would  be  sys- 
tematically contested;  and  by  the  time  we  had  spent  our 
thousands  instead  of  our  hundreds,  the  final  result  would, 
in  all  probability,  be  against  us.  Questions  of  identity, 
where  instances  of  personal  resemblance  are  concerned, 
are,  in  themselves,  the  hardest  of  all  questions  to  settle — 
the  hardest,  even  when  they  are  free  from  the  complica- 
tions which  beset  the  case  we  are  now  discussing.  I  really 
see  no  prospect  of  throwing  any  light  whatever  on  this  ex- 
traordinary affair.  Even  if  the  person  buried  in  Lim- 
meridge  church-yard  be  not  Lady  Glyde,  she  was,  in  life, 
on  your  own  showing,  so  like  her,  that  we  should  gain 
nothing  if  we  applied  for  the  necessary  authority  to  have 
the  body  exhumed.  In  short,  there  is  no  case,  Mr.  Hart- 
right — there  is  really  no  case." 

I  was  determined  to  believe  that  there  teas  a  case,  and, 
in  that  determination,  shifted  my  ground,  and  appealed  to 
him  once  more. 

"  Are  there  not  other  proofs  that  we  might  produce  be- 
sides the  proof  of  identity?"  I  asked. 

"  Not  as  you  are  situated,"  he  replied.  "  The  simplest 
and  surest  of  all  proofs,  the  proof  by  comparison  of  date, 
is,  as  1  understand,  altogether  out  of  your  reach.  If  you 
could  show  a  discrepancy  between  the  date  of  the  doctor's 
certificate  and  the  date  of  Lady  Clyde's  journey  to  Lon- 
don, the  matter  would  wear  a  totally  different  aspect;  and 
1  should  be  the  first  to  sa}^  Let  us  go  on." 

'"'  That  date  may  yet  be  recovered,  Mr.  Kyrle. " 

"  On  the  day  when  it  is  recovered,  Mr.  Hartright,  you 
will  have  a  case.  If  you  have  any  prospect  at  this  moment 
of  getting  at  it— -tell  me,  and  we  shall  see  if  I  can  advise 
you." 

1  considered.  Thehousekeeper  could  not  help  us;  L?.ura 
could  not  help  us;  Marian  could  not  help  us.  In  all 
probability,  the  only  persons  in  existence  who  knew  ilie 
date  were  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count. 

"  1  can  think  of  no  means  of  ascertaining  the  date  at 
present^"  I  said,  "  because  I  can  think  of  no  persons  wh(? 


434:  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

arc  sure  to  know  it  but  Count  Fosco  and  Sir  Percival 
Glyde." 

Mr.  Kyrle's  calmly  attentive  face  relaxed,  for  the  first 
time,  into  a  smile. 

"  With  your  opinion  of  the  conduct  of  those  two  gentle- 
men," he  said,  "  you  don't  expect  help  in  that  quarter,  1 
presume?  If  they  have  combined  to  gain  large  sums  of 
money  by  a  conspiracy,  they  are  not  likely  to  confess  it,  at 
any  rate." 

"  They  may  be  forced  to  confess  it,  Mr.  Kyrle.** 

"  By  whom?" 

"By  me." 

We  both  rose.  He  looked  me  attentively  in  the  face  with 
■more  appearance  of  interest  than  he  had  shown  yet.  I 
could  see  that  1  had  perplexed  him  a  little. 

"  You  are  very  determined,"  he  said.  "  You  have,  no 
doubt,  a  personal  motive  for  proceeding,  into  which  it  is 
not  my  business  to  inquire.  If  a  case  can  be  produced  in 
the  future,  I  can  only  say  my  best  assistance  is  at  your  serv- 
ice. At  the  same  time,  1  must  warn  you,  as  the  money 
Question  always  enters  into  the  law  question,  that  1  see  lit- 
tle hope,  eve.n  if  you  ultimately  established  the  fact  of  Lady 
Glyde's  being  alive,  of  recovering  her  fortune.  The  for- 
eigner would  probably  leave  the  country  before  proceedings 
were  commenced,  and  Sir  Percival's  embarrassments  are 
numerous  enough  and  pressing  enough  to  transfer  almost 
any  sum  of  money  he  may  possess  from  himself  to  his  cred- 
itors.    You  are,  of  course,  aware — " 

1  stopped  him  at  that  point. 

"  Let  me  beg  that  we  may  not  discuss  Lady  Glyde's 
affairs,"  I  said.  "  I  have  never  known  anything  about 
them  in  former  times,  and  I  know  nothing  of  them  now — 
except  that  her  fortune  is  lost.  You  are  right  in  assuming 
that  I  have  personal  motives  for  stirring  in  this  matter.  1 
wish  those  motives  to  be  always  as  disinterested  as  they  are 
at  the  present  moment — " 

He  tried  to  interpose  and  explain.  I  was  a  little  heated, 
1  suppose,  by  feeling  that  he  had  doubted  me,  and  I  went 
on  bluntly,  without  waiting  to  hear  him. 

"  There  shall  be  no  money  motive,"  1  said,  "  no  idea  of 
personal  advantage,  in  the  service  I  mean  to  render  to  Lady 
Glyde.  She  has  been  cast  out  as  a  stranger  from  the  house 
in  which  she  was  born — a  lie  which  records  her  death  has 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE.  435 

oeen  written  on  her  mother's  tomb — and  there  are  two  men, 
alive  and  unpunished,  who  are  responsible  for  it.  That 
house  shall  open  again  to  receive  her  in  the  presence  of 
every  soul  who  followed  the  false  funeral  to  the  grave;  that 
lie  shall  be  publicly  erased  from  the  tombstone,  by  the  au- 
thority of  the  head  of  the  family;  and  those  two  men  shall 
answer  for  their  crime  to  me,  though  the  justice  that  sits 
in  tribunals  is  powerless  to  pursue  them.  I  have  given  my 
life  to  that  purpose,  and^  alone  as  1  stand,  if  God  spares 
me,  I  will  accomplish  it." 

He  drew  back  toward  his  table,  and  said  nothing.  His 
face  showed  plainly  that  he  thought  my  delusion  had  got 
the  better  of  my  reason,  and  that  he  considered  it  totally 
useless  to  give  me  any  more  advice. 

"  We  each  keep  our  opinion,  Mr.  Kyrle,"  I  said,  "  and 
we  must  wait  till  the  events  of  the  future  decide  between 
us.  In  the  meantime,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the 
attention  you  have  given  to  my  statement.  You  have 
shown  me  that  the  legal  remedy  lies,  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  beyond  our  means.  We  can  not  produce  the  law- 
proof,  and  we  are  not  rich  enough  to  pay  the  law-expenses, 
it  is  something  gained  to  know  that." 

I  bowed,  and  walked  to  the  door.  He  called  me  back, 
and  gave  me  the  letter  which  1  had  seen  him  place  on  the 
table  by  itself  at  the  beginning  of  our  interview. 

"  This  came  by  post,  a  few  days  ago,"  he  said.  "  Per- 
haps you  will  not  mind  delivering  it?  Pray  tell  Miss  Hal- 
combe,  at  the  same  time,  that  1  sincerely  regret  being,  thus 
far,  unable  to  help  her — except  by  advice,  which  will  not 
be  more  welcome,  1  am  afraid,  to  her  than  to  you." 

I  looked  at  the  letter  while  he  was  speaking.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  "  Miss  Halcombe.  Care  of  Messrs.  Gilmore  and 
Kyrle,  Chancery  Lane."  The  handwriting  was  quite  un- 
known to  me. 

On  leaving  the  room,  I  asked  one  last  question. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know,"  1  said,  "if  Sir  Percival 
Glyde  is  still  in  Paris?" 

"  He  has  returned  to  London,"  replied  Mr.  Kyrle. 
*■'  At  least  I  heard  so  from  his  solicitor,  whom  I  met  yes- 
terday." 

After  that  answer  I  went  out. 

On  leaving  the  office,  the  first  precaution  to  be  observed 
was  to  abstain  from  attracting  attention   by  stopping  to 


436  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

look  about  mo.  I  walked  toward  one  of  the  quietest  of  the 
large  squarei  on  the  north  of  Holborn — then  suddenly 
stopped,  and  turned  round  at  a  place  where  a  long  stretch 
of  pavement  was  left  behind  me. 

There  were  two  men  at  the  corner  of  the  square  who  had 
stopped  also,  and  who  were  standing  talking  togethei-. 
After  a  moment's  reflection,  1  turned  back  so  as  Lo  pass 
them.  One  moved,  as  1  came  near,  and  turned  ihe  cornei 
leading  from  the  square  into  the  street.  The  other  re- 
mained stationary.  1  looked  at  him  as  1  passed,  and  in- 
stantly recognized  one  of  the  men  who  had  watched  me  be- 
fore I  left  England. 

If  I  had  been  free  to  follow  my  own  instincts,  I  should 
probably  have  begun  by  speaking  to  the  man,  and  have 
ended  by  knocking  him  down.  But  1  was  bound  to  con- 
sider consequences.  If  I  once  placed  myself  publicly  in  the 
wrong,  I  put  the  weapons  at  once  into  Sir  Percival's  hands. 
There  was  no  choice  but  to  oppose  cunning  by  cunning. 
I  turned  into  the  street  down  which  the  second  man  had 
disappeared,  and  passed  him,  waiting  in  a  door-way.  He 
was  a  stranger  to  me;  and  I  was  glad  to  make  sure  of  his 
personal  appearance,  in  case  of  future  annoyance.  Hav- 
ing done  this,  I  again  walked  northward,  till  1  reached  the 
New  Road.  There,  I  turned  aside  to  the  west  (having  the 
men  behind  me  all  the  time),  and  waited  at  a  point  where 
I  knew  myself  to  be  at  some  distance  from  a  cab-stand, 
until  a  fast  two-wheel  cab,  empty,  should  happen  to  pass 
me.  One  passed  in  a  few  minutes.  1  jumped  in,  and  told 
the  man  to  drive  rapidly  toward  Hyde  Park.  There  was 
no  second  fast  cab  fur  the  spies  behind  me.  I  saw  them 
dart  across  to  the  other  side  of  the  road,  to  follow  me  by 
running,  until  a  cab,  or  a  cab-stand,  came  in  their  way. 
But  I  had  the  start  of  them;  and  when  I  stopped  the  driver, 
and  got  out,  they  were  nowhere  in  sight.  I  crossed  Hyde 
Park,  and  made  sure,  on  the  open  ground,  that  I  was  free. 
When  1  at  last  turned  my  steps  homeward,  it  was  not  till 
many  hours  later — not  till  after  dark.  - 

I  found  Marian  waiting  for  me,  alone  in  the  little  sitting- 
room.  She  had  persuaded  Laura  to  go  to  rest,  after  first 
promising  to  show  me  her  drawing  the  moment  I  came  in. 
The  poor  little  dim  faint  sketch — so  trifling  in  itself,  so 
tou.  hing  in  its  associations-^— was  propped   up  carefully  on 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITF.  437 

the  table  with  two  books,  and  was  placed  where  the  I'aiiit 
light  of  the  one  candle  we  allowed  ourselves  might  fall  on 
it  to  the  best  advantage.  I  sat  down  to  lojk  at  the  draw- 
ing, and  to  teJl  Marian,  in  whispers,  vvluit  had  happened. 
The  partition  which  divided  ns  from  the  next  room  was  so 
thin  that  we  could  almost  hear  Laura's  breathing,  and  we 
might  have  disturbed  her  if  vve  had  spoken  aloud. 

Marian  preserved  her  composure  while  1  des^cribed  my 
interview  with  Mr.  Kyrle.  But  her  face  became  troubled 
when  I  spoke  next  of  the  men  who  had  followed  me  from 
the  lawyer's  oflice,  and  when  I  told  her  of  the  discovery  of 
Sir  Percival's  return. 

"  Bad  news,  Walter,"  she  said;  "  the  worst  news  you 
could  bring.     Have  you  nothing  more  to  lell  me?" 

"  I  have  something  to  give  you,"  I  replied,  handing  her 
the  note  which  Mr.  Kyrle  had  confided  to  my  care. 

She  looked  at  the  address,  and  recognized  the  handwrit- 
ing instantly. 

"  You  know  your  correspondent?"  I  said. 

*'  Too  well,"  she  answered.  "  My  correspondent  is 
Count  Fosco." 

With  that  reply  she  opened  the  note.  Her  face  fiushed 
deeply  while  she  read  it — her  eyes  brightened  with  anger, 
as  she  handed  it  to  me  to  read  in  my  turn. 

The  note  contained  these  lines: 

*'  Impelled  by  honorable  admiration — honorable  to  my- 
self, honorable  to  you — 1  write,  magnificent  Marian,  in  the 
interests  of  your  tranquillity,  to  say  two  consoling  words: 

"  Fear  nothing! 

"  Exercise  your  fine  natural  sense,  and  remain  in  retire- 
ment. Dear  and  admirable  woman,  invite  no  dangerous 
publicity.  Resignation  is  sublime — adopt  it.  The  modest 
repose  of  home  is  eternally  fresh — enjoy  it.  The  storms 
of  life  pass  harmless  over  the  valley  of  Seclusion — dwell, 
dear  lady,  in  the  valley. 

"  Do  this,  and  1  authorize  you  to  fear  nothing.  No  new 
calamity  shall  lacerate  your  sensibilities — sensibilities  pre- 
cious to  me  as  my  own.  You  shall  not  be  molested;  the 
fair  companion  of  your  retreat  shall  not  be  pursued.  She 
has  found  a  new  asylum  in  your  heart.  Priceless  asylum! 
— I  envy  her,  and  leave  her  there. 

"  One  last  word  of  affectijuate  warning,  of  paternal  cau- 


438  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

tioD — and  I  tear  myself  from  the  charm  of  addressing  you; 
1  close  these  fervent  lines. 

"  Advance  no  further  than  you  have  gone  already;  com- 
promise no  serious  interests;  threaten  nobody.  Do  not,  I 
implore  you,  force  me  into  action — Me,  the  Man  of  Action 
— when  it  is  the  cherished  object  of  my  ambition  to  be 
passive,  to  restrict  the  vast  reach  of  my  energies  and  my 
combinations,  for  your  sake.  If  you  have  rash  friends, 
moderate  their  deplorable  ardor.  If  Mr.  Hartright  re- 
turns to  P]ngland,  hold  no  communication  with  him.  1 
walk  on  a  path  of  my  own;  and  Percival  follows  at  my 
heels.  On  the  day  when  Mr.  Hartright  crosses  that  path, 
he  is  a  lost  man." 

The  only  signature  to  these  lines  was  the  initial  letter  F, 
surrounded  by  a  circle  of  intricate  flourishes.  I  threw  the 
letter  on  the  table,  with  all  the  contempt  that  I  felt  for  it. 

"  He  is  trying  to  frighten  you — a  sure  sign  that  he  is 
frightened  himself,"  1  said. 

She  was  too  genuine  a  woman  to  treat  the  letter  as  I 
treated  it.  The  insolent  familiarity  of  the  language  was 
too  much  for  her  self-control.  As  she  looked  at  me  across 
the  table,  her  hands  clinched  themselves  in  her  lap,  and 
I  he  old,  quick,  fiery  temper  flamed  out  again  brightly  in 
her  cheeks  and  her  eyes. 

"  Walter!"  she  said,  "  if  ever  those  two  men  are  at 
your  mercy,  and  if  you  are  obliged  to  spare  one  of  them — 
don't  let  it  be  the  Count." 

"  I  will  keep  his  letter,  Marian,  to  help  my  memory 
when  the  time  comes." 

She  looked  at  me  attentively  as  I  put  the  letter  away  in 
my  pocket-book. 

"  When  the  time  comes?"  she  repeated.  "  Can  you 
speak  of  the  future  as  if  you  were  certain  of  it.^ — certain, 
after  what  you  have  heard  in  Mr.  Kyrle's  office,  after  what 
has  happened  to  yon  to-day?" 

"  I  don't  count  the  time  from  to-day,  Marian.  All  I 
have  done  to-day  is  to  ask  another  man  to  act  for  me.  I 
count  from  to-morrow — " 

"  Why  from  to-morrow?" 

"  Because  to-morrow  I  mean  to  act  for  myself." 

"  How?" 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  439 

•*  I  shall  go  to  Black  water  by  the  first  train,  and  return, 
i  Qope,  at  uiglit." 

-  To  Biackwater?" 

•'  Yes.  I  have  had  time  to  think,  since  I  lett  Mr.  Kyrle. 
HJs  opinion,  on  one  point,  confirms  my  own.  We  must 
persist  to  the  last  in  hunting  down  the  date  of  Laura's  jour- 
ney. The  one  weak  point  in  the  conspiracy,  and  probably 
the  one  chance  of  proving  that  she  is  a  living  woman,  cen- 
ters in  the  discovery  of  that  date.^' 

"  You  mean,*'  said  Marian,  "  the  discovery  that  Laura 
did  not  leave  Black  water  Park  till  afte?'  the  date  of  her 
death  on  the  doctor's  certificate?" 

"Certainly." 

"What  makes  you  think  it  might  have  been  after? 
Laura  can  tell  us  nothing  of  the  time  she  was  in  London." 

"But  the  owner  of  the  Asylum  told  you  that  she  was 
received  there  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  July.  I  doubt 
Count  Fosco's  ability  to  keep  her  in  London,  and  to  keep 
her  insensible  to  all  that  was  passing  around  her,  more  than 
one  night.  In  that  case  she  must  have  started  on  the 
twenty-sixth,  and  must  have  come  to  London  one  day  aftier 
the  date  of  her  own  death  on  the  doctor's  certificate.  If 
we  can  prove  that  date,  we  prove  our  case  against  Sir  Per- 
cival  and  the  Count." 

"  Yes,  yes — 1  see!  But  how  is  the  proof  to  be  ob- 
tained?" 

"  Mrs.  Michelson's  narrative  has  suggested  to  me  two 
ways  of  trying  to  uotain  it.  One  of  them  is  to  question  the 
doctor,  Mr.  JJawson — who  must  know  when  he  resumed 
his  attendance  at  BlacKwater  Park,  after  Laura  left  the 
honse.  The  other  is,  to  make  inquiries  at  the  inn  to  which 
Sir  Percival  drove  away  by  himself,  at  night.  We  know 
that  his  departure  followed  Laura's,  after  the  lapse  of  a 
few  hours;  and  we  may  get  at  the  date  in  that  way;  The 
attempt  is  at  least  worth  making — and,  to-morrow,  I  am 
determined  it  shall  be  made." 

"  And  suppose  it  fails — 1  look  at  the  worst,  now,  Wal- 
ter; but  1  will  look  at  the  best,  if  disappointments  come  to 
try  us — suppose  no  one  can  help  you  at  Blackwater?" 

"  There  are  two  men  who  can  help  me,  and  shall  help 
me,  in  London — Sir  Pej-cival  and  the  Count.  Innocent 
people  may  well  forget  the  date;  but  ihet/  are  auilty,  and 


440  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

they  know  it.  If  1  fail  everywhere  else,  I  mean  to  force  a 
confession  out  of  one  or  both  of  them,  on  my  own  terms.*' 

All  the  woman  flushed  up  in  Marian's  face  as  I  spoke. 

"  Begin  with  the  Count!"  she  whispered,  eagerly.  "  For 
my  sake,  begin  with  the  Count." 

"  We  must  begin  for  Laura's  sake,  where  there  is  the 
best  chance  of  success,"  I  replied. 

The  color  faded  from  her  face  again,  and  she  shook  her 
head  sadly. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  you  are  right — it  was  mean  and  mis- 
erable of  me  to  say  that.  I  try  to  be  patient,  Walter,  and 
succeed  better  now  than  1  did  in  happier  times.  But  I 
have  a  little  of  my  old  temper  still  left,  and  it  will  get  the 
better  of  me  when  1  think  of  the  Count!" 

"  His  turn  will  come,"  I  said.  *'  But  remember,  there 
is  no  weak  place  in  his  life  that  we  know  of,  yet."  I  waited 
a  little  to  let  her  recover  her  self-possession,  and  then  spoke 
the  decisive  words: 

*'  Marian!  There  is  a  weak  place  we  both  know  of  in 
Sir  Percival's  life — " 

"  You  mean  the  Secret!" 

"  Yes:  the  Secret.  It  is  our  only  sure  hold  on  him.  1 
can  force  him  from  his  position  of  security,  1  can  drag  him 
and  his  villainy  into  the  face  of  day,  by  no  other  means. 
Whatever  the  Count  may  have  done,  Sir  Percival  has  con- 
sented to  the  conspiracy  against  Laura  from  another  motive 
besides  the  motive  of  gain.  You  heard  him  tell  the  Count 
that  he  believed  his  wife  knew  enough  to  ruin  him?  You 
heard  him  say  that  he  was  a  lost  man  if  the  secret  of  Anne 
Catherick  was  known?" 

"Yes!  yes!     I  did." 

"  Well,  Marian,  when  our  other  resources  have  failed  us, 
1  mean  to  know  the  secret.  My  old  superstition  clings  to 
me,  even  yet.  I  say  again  the  woman  in  white  is  a  living 
influence  in  our  three  lives.  The  End  is  appointed;  the 
End  is  drawing  us  on — and  Anne  Catherick,  dead  in  her 
rave,  points  the  way  to  it  still!" 


)g 


V. 


The  story  of  my  first  inquiries  in  Hampshire  is  soon  told. 

My  early  departure  tvom  London  enabled  me  to  reach 

Mr.  Dawson's  house  in  the  forenoon.     Oui'  interview,  so 


THE    WOMAK    IN    WHITE.  441 

far  as  the  object  of  my  visit  was  concerned,  led  to  no  sat- 
isfactory result. 

Mr.  Dawson's  books  certainly  showed  when  he  had  re- 
sumed his  attendance  on  Miss  Halcombe  at  Blackwater 
Park,  but  it  was  not  possible  to  calculate  back  from  this 
date  with  any  exactness,  without  such  help  from  Mrs, 
Michelson  as  I  knew  she  was  unable  to  afford.  She  could 
not  say  from  niv^mory  (who,  in  similar  cases,  ever  can?) 
how  many  days  had  elapsed  between  the  renewal  of  the 
doctor's  attendance  on  his  patient  and  the  previous  depart- 
ure of  Lady  Glyde.  She  was  almost  certain  of  having 
mentioned  the  circumstance  of  the  departure  to  Miss  Hal- 
combe on  the  day  after  it  htippeiied — but  then  she  was  no 
more  able  to  fix  the  date  of  the  day  on  which  this  disclosure 
took  place  than  to  fix  the  date  of  tliP  day  before,  when  Lady 
GJyde  had  left  for  London.  Neither  could  she  calculate, 
with  any  nearer  approach  to  exactness,  the  time  that  had 
[tassed  from  the  departure  of  her  mistress  to  tiie  period 
when  the  undated  letter  from  Mme.  Fosco  arrived.  Last- 
ly, as  if  to  complete  the  series  of  difficulties,  the  doctor 
himself,  having  been  ill  at  the  time,  had  omitted  to  make 
his  usual  entry  of  the  day  of  the  week  and  month  when  the 
gardener  from  Blackwater  Park  had  called  on  him  to  de- 
liver Mrs.  Michelson's  message. 

Hopeless  of  obtaining  assistance  from  Mr.  Dawson,  1  re- 
solved to  try  next  if  I  could  establish  the  date  of  Sir  Per- 
cival's  arrival  at  Knowlesbury. 

It  seemed  like  a  fatality!  When  I  reached  Knowlesbury 
the  inn  was  shut  up,  and  bills  were  posted  on  the  walls. 
The  speculation  had  been  a  bad  one,  as  1  was  informed,  ever 
since  the  time  of  the  railway.  The  new  hotel  at  the  station 
had  gradually  absorbed  the  business,  and  the  old  inn  (which 
we  knew  to  be  the  inn  at  which  Sir  Percival  had  put  up) 
had  been  closed  about  two  months  since.  The  proprietor 
had  left  the  town  with  all  his  goods  and  chattels,  and  where 
he  had  gone  I  could  not  positively  ascertain  from  any  one. 
The  four  people  of  whom  I  inquired  gave  me  four  ditferent 
accounts  of  his  plans  and  projects  when  he  left  Kix)w]es- 
bury. 

There  were  still  some  hours  to  spare  before  the  last  train 
left  for  London,  and  I  drove  back  again  in  a  tiy,  from  the 
Knowlesbury  station  to  Blackwater  Park,  with  the  purpose 


443  THE    WOMAN     IN    WHITE. 

of  questioning  the  gardener  and  the  person  who  kept  the 
loJge.  If  they,  too,  proved  unable  to  assist  me,  my  re- 
sources, for  the  present,  were  at  an  end,  and  1  might  re- 
turn to  town. 

I  dismissed  the  fly  a  mile  distant  from  the  park,  and, 
getting  my  directions  from  the  driver,  proceeded  by  myself 
to  the  house. 

As  I  turned  into  the  lane  from  the  high-road,  1  saw  a 
man,  with  a  carpet-bag,  walking  before  me  rapidly  on  the 
way  to  the  lodge.  He  was  a  little  man,  dressed  in  shabby 
black,  and  wearing  a  remarkably  large  hat.  ]  set  him 
down  (as  well  as  it  was  possible  to  judge)  for  a  lawyer's 
clerk,  and  stopped  at  once  to  widen  the  distance  between 
us.  He  had  not  heard  me,  and  he  walked  on  out  of  sight, 
without  looking  back.  When  1  passed  through  the  gates 
myself  a  little  while  afterward,  he  was  not  visible — he  had 
evidently  gone  on  to  the  house. 

There  were  two  women  in  the  lodge.  One  of  them  was 
old;  the  other  1  knew  at  once,  by  Marianas  description  of 
her,  to  be  Margaret  Porcher. 

I  asked  first  if  Sir  Percival  was  at  the  park,  and,  receiv- 
.*ng  a  reply  in  the  negative,  inquired  next  when  he  had  left 
it.  Neither  of  the  women  could  tell  me  more  than  that  he 
had  gone  away  in  the  summer.  1  could  extract  nothing 
from  Margaret  Porcher  but  vacant  smiles  and  shakings  of 
the  head.  The  old  woman  was  a  little  more  intelligent, 
and  1  managed  to  lead  her  into  speaking  of  the  manner  of 
Sir  Percival's  departure,  and  of  the  alarm  that  it  caused 
her.  She  remembered  her  master  calling  her  out  of  bed, 
and  remembered  his  frightening  her  by  swearing,  but  the 
date  at  which  the  occurrence  happened  was,  as  she  honestly 
acknowledged,  "  quite  beyond  her. " 

On  leaving  the  lodge,  I  saw  the  gardener  at  work,  not 
far  off.  When  I  first  addressed  him  he  looked  at  me  rather 
distrustfully,  but  on  my  using  Mrs.  Michelson's  name,  with 
a  civil  reference  to  himself,  he  entered  into  conversation 
readily  enough.  There  i;^  no  need  to  describe  what  passed 
between  us:  it  ended  as  ail  my  other  attempts  to  discover 
the  date  had  ended.  The  gardener  knew  that  his  master 
had  driven  away,  at  night,  "some  time  in  July,  the  last 
fortnight  or  the  last  ten  days  in  the  month" — and  kaeflf 
tto  more. 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  443 

While  we  were  speaking  together,  I  saw  the  mau  iu 
black,  with  the  large  hat,  come  out  from  the  house,  and 
stand  at  some  little  distance  observing  us. 

Certain  suspicious  of  his  errand  at  Blackwater  Park  had 
already  cossed  my  mind.  They  were  now  increased  by 
the  gardener's  inability  (or  unwillingness)  to  tell  me  who 
the  man  was;  and  I  determined  to  clear  the  way  before  me, 
if  possible,  by  speaking  to  him.  The  plainest  question  1 
could  put,  as  a  stranger,  would  be  to  inquire  if  the  house 
was  allowed  to  be  shown  to  visitors.  I  walked  up  to  the 
man  at  once,  and  accosted  him  in  those  words. 

His  look  and  manner  unmistakably  betrayed  that  he  knew 
who  I  was,  and  that  he  wanted  to  irritate  me  into  quarrel- 
ing with  him.  His  reply  was  insolent  enough  to  have  an- 
swered the  purpose,  if  1  hail  been  less  determined  to  con- 
trol myself.  As  it  was,  1  met  him  with  the  most  resolute 
politeness,  apologized  for  my  involuntary  intrusion  (which 
he  called  a  "  trespass  "),  and  left  the  grounds.  It  was  ex- 
actly as  I  suspected.  The  recognition  of  me,  when  1  left 
Mr.  Kyrle's  office,  had  been  evidently  communicated  to  Sii 
Percival  Glyde,  and  the  man  in  black  had  been  sent  to  the 
park  in  anticipation  of  my  making  inquiries  at  the  house, 
or  in  the  neighborhood.  If  I  I:ad  fiven  him  the  least 
chance  of  lodging  any  sort  of  legal  complaint  against  me, 
the  interference  of  the  local  magistrate  would  no  doubt 
have  been  turned  to  account,  as  a  clog  on  my  proceedings, 
and  a  means  of  separating  me  from  Marian  and  Laura  for 
some  days  at  least. 

I  was  prepared  to  be  watched  on  the  way  from  Black- 
water  Park  to  the  station,  exactly  as  1  had  iDeen  watched, 
in  London,  the  day  before.  But  1  could  not  discover  at 
the  time  whether  I  was  really  followed  on  this  occasion  or 
not.  The  man  in  black  might  have  had  means  of  tracking 
me  at  his  disposal  of  which  1  was  not  aware — but  I  cer- 
tainly saw  nothing  of  him,  in  his  own  person,  either  on  the 
way  to  the  station,  or  afterward  on  my  arrival  at  the  London 
terminus,  in  the  evening.  I  reached  home  on  foot,  taking 
the  precaution,  before  I  a^jproached  our  own  door,  of  walk- 
ing round  by  the  loneliest  street  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
there  stopping  and  looking  back  more  than  once  over  the 
open  space  behind  me.  I  had  first  learned  to  use  this 
stratagem  against  suspected  treachery  in  the  wilds  of  Cen- 
tral America — and  now  I  was  practicing  it  again,  with  the 


414  THE    WOMAN    IN-    WHITE. 

same  purpose  and  with  even  greater  caution,  in  the  heart 
of  civilized  London! 

Nothing  had  happened  to  alarm  Marian  during  my  ab- 
sence. She  asked  eagerly  what  success  I  had  met  with. 
When  1  told  her,  she  could  not  conceal  her  surprise  at  the 
inditlerence  with  which  I  spoke  of  the  failure  of  my  investi- 
gations thus  far. 

The  truth  was,  that  the  ill-success  of  my  inquiries  had 
in  no  sense  daunted  me.  1  had  pursued  them  as  a  matter 
of  duty,  and  1  had  expected  nothing  from  them.  In  the 
state  of  my  mind  at  that  time  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  me 
to  know  that  the  struggle  was  now  narrowed  to  a  trial  of 
strength  between  myself  and  Sir  Percival  Giyile.  The 
vindictive  motive  had  mingled  itself,  all  along,  with  my 
other  and  better  motives;  and  I  confess  it  was  a  satisfac- 
tion to  me  to  feel  that  the  surest  way— the  only  way  left — 
of  serving  Laura's  cause  was  to  fasten  my  hojj}  firmly  on 
the  villain  who  had  married  her. 

While  I  acknowledge  that  I  was  not  strong  enough  to 
keep  my  motives  above  the  reach  of  this  iui^tinct  of  re- 
venge, 1  can  honestly  say  something  in  my  own  favor  ou 
the  other  side.  No  base  speculation  on  the  future  relations 
of  Laura  and  myself,  and  ou  the  private  and  personal  con- 
cessions which  1  might  force  from  Sir  Percival  if  I  once  had 
him  at  my  mercy,  ever  entered  my  mind.  I  never  said  to 
myself,  "  If  I  do  succeed,  it  shall  bo  one  result  of  my  suc- 
cess that  I  put  it  out  of  her  husband's  power  to  take  her 
from  me  again."  I  could  not  look  at  her  and  think  of  the 
future  with  such  thoughts  as  those.  The  sad  sight  of  the 
change  in  her  from  her  former  self  made  the  one  interest 
of  my  love  an  interest  of  tenderness  and  compassion  which 
her  father  or  her  brother  might  have  felt,  and  which  1  felt, 
God  knows,  in  my  inmost  heart.  All  my  hopes  looked  no 
further  on,  now,  than  to  the  doy  of  her  recovery.  There, 
till  she  was  strong  again  and  ha[)py  again — there,  till  she 
could  look  at  me  as  she  had  once  looked,  and  speak  to  me 
as  she  had  once  spoken — the  future  of  my  happiest  thoughts 
and  my  dearest  wishes  ended. 

These  words  are  written  under  no  prompting  of  idle  self- 
contemplation.  Passages  in  this  narrative  are  soon  to  come 
which  will  set  the  minds  of  others  in  judgment  on  my  con- 
duct. It  is  right  tliat  the  best  and  the  worst  of  me  should 
be  fairly  balanced  before  that  time. 


THE    WOr.rAN"    IN"    WHITE.  445 

On  the  morniDg  after  my  return  from  IIamp?hire,  1  took 
Marian  upstairs  into  my  workiug-room,  and  iliere  laid  be- 
fore her  the  plan  that  I  had  matured,  thus  far,  fur  H;asler- 
ing  the  one  assailable  point  in  the  life  of  Sir  Percival  Gjyde. 

The  way  to  the  Secret  lay  through  the  mystery,  hitherto 
impenetrable  to  all  of  us,  of  the  woman  in  vvliite.  The  ap- 
proach to  that,  in  its  turn,  might  be  gained  by  obtaining 
the  assistance  of  Anne  Catherick's  mother;  and  the  cnlv 
ascertainable  means  of  prevailing  on  Mrs.  CaUierick  to  act 
or  to  speak  in  the  matter  depended  on  the  chance  of  my 
discovering  local  particulars  and  family  particulars,  first  of 
all,  from  Mrs.  Clements.  After  thinking  the  subject  over 
carefully,  I  felt  certain  that  1  could  only  begin  the  new  in- 
quiries by  placing  myself  in  communication  vvith  the  faith- 
ful friend  and  protectress  of  Anne  Catherick. 

The  first  difficulty,  then,  was  to  find  Mrs.  Clements. 

1  was  indebted  to  Marian's  quick  perception  for  meeting 
this  necessity  at  once  by  the  best  and  simplest  means. 
She  proposed  to  write  to  the  farm  near  Limmeridge  (Todd's 
Corner),  to  inquire  whether  Mrs.  Clements  had  communi- 
cated with  Mrs.  Todd  during  the  past  few  months.  How 
Mrs.  Clements  had  been  separated  from  Anne,  it  was  im- 
possible for  us  to  say;  but  that  separation  once  effected,  it 
would  certainly  occur  to  Mrs.  Clements  to  inquire  after  the 
missing  woman  in  the  neighborhood  of  all  others  to  which 
she  was  known  to  be  most  attached — the  neighborhood  of 
Limmeridge.  1  saw  directly  that  Marian's  proposal  offered 
us  a  prospect  of  success,  and  she  v/rote  to  Mrs.  Todd  ac- 
cordingly by  the  day's  post. 

While  we  were  waiting  for  the  reply,  I  made  myself 
master  of  all  the  information  Marian  could  afford  on  the 
subject  of  Sir  Percival's  family,  and  of  his  early  life.  She 
could  only  speak  on  these  topics  from  hearsay,  but  she  was 
reasonably  certain  of  what  little  she  had  to  tell. 

Sir  Percival  was  an  only  child.  His  father,  Sir  Felix 
Clyde,  had  suffered,  from  his  birth,  under  a  painful  and 
incurable  deformity,  and  had  shunned  all  society  from  his 
earliest  years.  His  sole  happiness  was  in  the  enjoyment 
of  music,  and  he  had  married  a  lady  wilh  tastes  similar  to 
his  own,  who  was  said  to  be  a  most  accomplished  musician. 
He  inherited  the  Blackwater  property  while  still  a  young 
man.     Neither  he  nor  his  wife,  after  taking  possession. 


446  THE    WvOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

made  advances  of  any  sort  toward  the  society  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  no  one  endeavored  to  tempt  them  into  aban- 
doning Liieir  reserve,  with  the  one  disastrous  excei^tion  ol 
the  rector  of  the  parish. 

The  rector  was  the  worst  of  all  innocent  mischief-makers 
—an  overzealous  man.  He  had  heard  that  Sir  Felix  had 
left  College  with  the  character  of  being  little  better  tlian 
a  revolutionist  in  politics  and  an  infidel  in  religion,  and  he 
ai'rived  conscientiously  at  the  conclusion  that  it  was  his 
bounden  duty  to  summon  the  lord  of  the  manor  to  hear  the 
sound  views  enunciated  in  the  parish  church.  Sir  Felix 
fiercely  resented  the  clergyman's  well-meant  but  ill-direct- 
ed interference,  insulting  him  so  grossly  and  so  publicly 
that  the  families  in  the  neigliborhood  sent  letters  of  indig- 
nant remonstrance  to  the  park;  and  even  the  tenants  on 
theBlackwater  property  expressed  their  opinion  as  strongly 
as  they  dared.  The  baronet,  who  had  no  country  tastes 
of  any  kind,  and  no  attaiihment  to  the  estate,  or  to  any 
one  living  on  it,  declared  that  the  society  at  Blackwater 
should  never  have  a  second  chance  of  annoying  him,  and 
left  the  place  from  that  moment. 

After  a  short  residence  in  London,  he  and  his  wife  de- 
parted for  the  Continent,  and  never  returned  to  England 
again.  They  lived  part  of  the  time  in  France,  and  pan 
in  Germany,  always  keeping  themselves  in  the  strict  retire- 
ment which  the  morbid  sense  of  his  own  personal  deformity 
had  made  a  necessity  to  Sir  Felix.  Their  son,  Percival, 
had  been  born  abroad,  and  had  been  educated  there  by  pri- 
rate  tutors.  His  mother  was  the  first  of  his  parents  whom 
he  lost.  His  father  had  died  a  few  years  after  her,  either 
in  1825  or  1826.  Sir  Percival  had  been  in  England,  as  a 
young  man,  once  or  twice  before  that  period;  but  his  ac- 
quaintance with  the  late  Mr.  Fairlie  did  not  begin  till  after 
the  time  of  his  father's  death.  They  soon  became  very 
intimate,  although  Sir  Percival  was  seldom,  or  never,  at 
Limmeridge  House  in  those  days.  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie 
might  have  met  him  once  or  twice  in  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie's 
company,  but  he  could  have  known  little  of  him  at  that  or 
any  other  time.  Sir  Percival's  only  intimate  friend  in  the 
Fairlie  family  had  been  Laura's  father. 

These  were  all  the  particulars  that  1  could  gain  from 
Marian.  They  suggested  nothing  which  was  useful  to  my 
present  purpose,  but  I  noted  them  down  carefully,  in  the 


THE    WOMAN-    IN    WHITE.  44.' 

event  of  their  proviiis:  'o  be  of  importance  at  any  future 
period. 

Mr.  Todd "s reply  (lul  Irtsatjd,  by  our  own  wish,  to  a  post- 
office  at  some  distance  from  us)  liad  arrived  at  its  destina- 
tion when  1  went  to  apply  for  it.  The  chances,  which  had 
been  all  against  us  hitherto,  turned,  from  this  moment,  in 
our  favor.  Mrs,  Todd's  letter  contained  the  first  item  of 
information  of  which  we  were  in  search.  \ 

Mrs.  Clements,  it  appeared,  had  (as  we  had  conjectured) 
written  to  Todd's  Corner,  asking  pardon,  in  the  first  place, 
for  the  abrupt  manner  in  which  slie  and  Anne  had  left 
their  friends  at  the  farm-house  (on  the  morning  after  I 
had  met  the  woman  in  white  in  Limmeridge  church-yard); 
and  then  informing  Mrs.  Todd  of  x^nne's  disappearance; 
and  entreating  that  she  would  cause  inquiries  to  be  made  in 
the  neighborhood,  on  the  chance  that  the  lost  woman 
might  have  strayed  back  to  Limmeridge.  In  making  this 
request,  Mrs.  Clements  had  been  careful  to  add  to  it  the 
address  at  which  she  might  always  be  heard  of;  and  that 
address  Mrs.  Todd  now  transmitted  to  Marian.  It  was  in 
London,  and  within  an  hour's  walk  of  our  lodging. 

In  the  words  of  the  proverb,  1  was  resolved  not  to  let 
the  grass  grow  under  my  feet.  The  next  morning  I  set 
forth  to  seek  an  interview  with  Mrs.  Clements.  This  was 
my  first  step  forward  in  he  investigation.  The  story  of 
the  desperate  attempt  to  which  I  now  stood  committed 
begins  here. 

VI. 

The  address  communicated  by  Mrs.  Todd  took  me  to  a 
lodging-house  situated  in  a  respectable  street  near  the 
Gray's  Inn  Road. 

When  I  knocked,  the  door  was  opened  by  Mrs,  Clements 
herself.  She  did  not  appear  to  remember  me,  and  asked 
me  what  my  business  was,  I  recalled  to  her  our  meeting' 
in  Limmeridge  church-yard,  at  the  close  of  my  interview 
there  with  the  woman  in  white,  taking  special  care  to  re- 
mind her  that  I  was  the  person  who  assisted  Anne  Cather- 
ink  (as  Anne  had  herself  declared)  to  escape  the  pursuit 
from  the  Asylum.  This  was  my  only  claim  to  the  confid- 
ence of  Mrs.  Clements.  She  remembered  the  circumstance 
the  moment  I  spoke  of  it,  and  asked  me  into  the  parlor, 


148  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

In  the  greatest  anxiety  to  know  if  I  had  brought  her  any 
news  of  Anne. 

It  was  impossible  for  uie  to  tell  her  the  whole  truth  with- 
out, at  the  same  time,  entering  into  })artioulars  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  conspirac}'  which  it  would  have  been  dangerous 
to  contide  to  a  stranger.  1  could  only  abstain  most  care- 
fully from  raising  any  false  hopes,  and  then  explain  that 
the  object  of  my  visit  was  to  discover  tliB  persons  who  were 
really  responsible  for  Anne's  disappearance.  I  even 
added,  so  as  to  exonerate  myj>elf  from  any  after-reproach 
of  my  own  conscience,  that  1  entertained  not  the  least  hope 
of  being  able  to  trace  her;  that  1  believed  we  should  never 
see  her  alive  again;  and  that  my  main  interest  in  the  affair 
was  to  bring  to  punishment  two  men  whom  I  suspected  to 
be  concerned  in  luring  her  away,  and  at  whose  hands  I  and 
some  dear  friends  of  mine  had  suffered  a  griveous  wrong. 
With  this  explanation,  I  left  it  to  Mrs.  Clements  to  say 
whether  our  interest  in  the  mf'"'"er  (whatever  difference 
there  might  be  in  the  motives  which  actuated  us)  was  not 
the  same,  a:;d  whether  she  felt  any  reluctance  to  forward 
my  object  by  giving  me  such  information  on  the  subject  of 
my  inquiries  as  she  happened  to  possess. 

The  poor  woman  was,  at  first,  too  much  confused  and 
agitated  to  understand  thoroughly  what  1  said  to  her.  She 
could  only  reply  that  I  was  welcome  to  anything  she  could 
tell  me  in  return  for  the  kindness  1  had  shown  to  Anne.  But 
she  was  not  very  quick  and  ready,  at  the  best  of  times,  in 
talking  to  strangers;  she  would  beg  me  to  put  her  in  the 
right  way,  and  to  say  where  I  wished  her  to  begin. 

Knowing  by  experience  that  the  plainest  narrative  attaiii 
able  from  persons  who  are  not  accustomed  to  arrange  their 
ideas,  is  the  narrative  which  goes  far  enough  back  at  the 
beginning  to  avoid  all  impediments  of  retrospection  in  itE 
course,  I  asked  Mrs.  Clements  to  tell  me,  first,  what  had 
happened  after  she  had  left  Limmeridge;  and  so,  by  watch- 
ful questioning,  carried  her  on  from  point  to  point  till  we 
reached  the  period  of  Anne's  disappearance. 

The  substance  of  the  information  which  1  thus  obtained 
was  as  follows: 

Oil  leaving  the  farm  at  Todd's  Corner,  Mrs.  Clements 
and  Anne  had  traveled,  that  day,  as  far  as  Derby,  and  had 
n-inained  there  a  week,  on  Anne's  account.  They  had  then 
roue  on  to  London,  and  had  lived  in  the  lodging  occupied 


THE    WOMAN^    m    WHITE.  448 

Oy  Mrs.  Cleiueuts,  at  Ihat  Linn.!,  for  a  month  or  more, 
wnen  cinuiinstaiices  (ioniiectcl  with  (lie  house  and  the  land- 
lord obliged  iheni  to  eluinge  their  quarters.  Anne's  terror 
of  being  disco'/ered  in  London  or  its  neighborhood,  when- 
ever they  ventured  to  walk  out,  had  gradually  communi- 
cated itself  to  Mrs.  Clements,  and  she  had  determined  oq 
removing  to  oue  of  the  most  out-of-the-way  places  in  Eng- 
land— to  the  town  of  Grimsby,  in  Lincolnshire,  where  her 
deceased  husband  had  passed  all  his  early  life.  His  rela- 
tives were  respectable  people  settled  in  the  town;  they  had 
always  treated  Mrs.  Clements  svith  great  kindness;  and  she 
thought  it  impossible  to  do  better  than  go  there,  and  take 
Llie  advice  of  her  husband's  friends.  Anne  would  not  hear 
of  returning  to  her  mother  at  Welmingham,  because  she 
had  been  removed  to  the  Asylum  from  that  place,  and 
because  Sir  Percival  would  be  certain  to  go  back  there  and 
find  her  again.  There  was  serious  weight  in  this  objec- 
tion, and  Mrs,  Clements  felt  that  it  was  not  to  bo  easily 
removed. 

At  Grimsby  the  first  serious  symptoms  of  illness  had 
shown  themselves  in  Anne.  They  appeared  soon  after  the 
news  of  Lady  Clyde's  marriage  had  been  made  public  ni 
the  newspapers,  and  had  reached  her  through  that  medium. 

The  medical  man  who  was  sent  for  to  attend  the  sick 
woman  discovered  at  once  that  she  was  suffering  from  a 
serious  affection  of  the  heart.  The  illness  lasted  long,  left 
her  very  weak,  and  returned,  at  intervals,  though  with 
mitigated  severity,  again  and  again.  They  remained  at 
Grimsby,  in  consequence,  during  the  first  half  of  the  new 
year,  and  there  they  might  probably  have  stayed  much 
longer,  but  for  the  sudden  resolution  which  Anne  took,  at 
this  time,  to  venture  back  to  Hampshire,  for  the  purpose  of 
obtaining  a  private  interview  wuth  Lady  Clyde. 

Mrs.  Clements  did  all  in  her  power  to  oppose  the  execu- 
tion of  this  hazardous  and  unaccountable  project.  No  ex- 
planation of  her  motives  was  offered  by  Anne,  except  that 
she  believed  the  day  of  her  death  was  not  far  off,  and  that 
she  had  something  on  her  mind  which  must  be  communi- 
cated to  Lady  Clyde,  at  any  risk,  in  secrete  Her  resolution 
to  accomplish  this  purpose  was  so  firmly  settled  that  she 
declared  her  intention  of  going  to  Hampshire  by  herself,  if 
WLrs.  Clements  felt  any  unwillingness  to  go  with  her.  The 
aoctor,  on  being  consulted,  was  of  opinion  that  serious  op- 

16 


450  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

position  to  her  wishes,  would,  iu  all  probability,  produce 
another  and  perhaps  a  fatal  fit  of  illness;  and  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents, under  this  advice,  yielded  to  necessity,  and  once  more, 
with  sad  forebodings  of  trouble  and  danger  to  come,  allowed 
Anne  Catherick  to  have  her  own  way. 

On  the  journey  from  London  to  Hampshire,  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents discovered  that  one  of  their  fellow-passengers  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  neighborhood  of  Blackwater,  and  could 
give  her  all  the  information  she  needed  on  the  subject  of 
localities.  In  this  way  she  found  out  that  the  only  place 
they  could  go  to  which  was  not  dangerously  near  to  Sir 
Percival's  residence  was  a  large  village  called  Sandon.  The 
distance  here  from  Blackwater  Park  was  between  three  and 
four  miles — and  that  distance  and  back  again,  Anne  had 
walked,  on  each  occasion  when  she  had  appeared  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  lake. 

For  the  few  days  during  which  they  were  at  Sandon 
without  being  discovered,  they  had  lived  a  little  way  from 
the  village,  in  the  cottage  of  a  decent  widow  woman,  who 
had  a  bedroom  to  let,  and  whose  discreet  silence  Mrs. 
Clements  had  done  her  best  to  secure,  for  the  first  week 
at  least.  She  had  also  tried  hard  to  induce  Anne  to  be 
content  with  writing  to  Lady  Glyde  in  the  first  instance. 
But  the  failure  of  the  warning  contained  in  the  anony- 
mous letter  sent  to  Limmerid^e  had  made  Anne  resolute  to 
speak  this  time,  and  obstinate  in  the  determination  to  go 
on  her  errand  alone. 

Mrs.  Clements,  nevertheless,  followed  her  privately,  on 
each  occasion  when  she  went  to  the  lake — without,  however, 
venturing  near  enough  to  the  boat-house  to  be  a  witness  of 
what  took  place  there.  When  Anne  returned  for  the  last 
time  from  the  dangerous  neighborhood,  the  fatigue  of  walk- 
ing, day  after  day,  distances  which  were  far  too  great  for  her 
strength,  added  to  the  exhausting  effect  of  the  agitation 
from  which  she  had  suffered,  produced  the  result  wliich 
Mrs.  Clements  had  dreaded  all  along.  The  old  pain  over 
the  heart  and  the  other  symptoms  of  the  illness  at  Grimsby 
returned,  and  Anne  was  confined  to  her  bed  in  the  cottage. 

In  this  emergency  the  first  necessity,  as  Mrs.  Clements 
knsw  by  experience,  was  to  endeavor  to  quiet  Anne's  anx- 
iety of  mind;  and  for  this  purpose,  the  good  woman  went 
liprself  the  next  day  to  the  lake,  to  try  if  she  could  find 
Lady  Glyde  (who  would  be  sure,  as  Anne  said,  to  take  her 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  451 

d»ily  walk  to  the  boat-house),  and  prevail  on  her  to  come 
back  privately  to  the  cottage  near  Sandon.  Oil  reaching 
the  outskirts  of  the  plantation,  Mrs.  Clements  encountered, 
not  Lad}'  Glyde,  but  a  tall,  stout,  elderly  gentleman  with 
a  book  in  his  hand — m  other  words.  Count  Fosco. 

The  Count,  after  looking  at  her  very  attentively  for  a 
moment,  asked  if  she  expected  to  see  any  one  in  that  place; 
and  added,  before  she  could  reply,  that  he  was  waiting 
there  with  a  message  from  Lady  Glyde,  but  that  he  was 
not  quite  certain  whether  the  person  then  before  him  an- 
swered the  description  of  the  person  with  whom  he  was 
desired  to  communicate. 

Upon  this  Mrs.  Clements  at  once  confided  her  errand  to 
him,  and  entreated  that  he  would  help  to  allay  Anne's 
anxiety  by  trusting  his  message  to  her.  The  Count  most 
readily  and  kindly  complied  with  her  request.  The  mes- 
sage, he  said,  was  a  very  important  one.  Lady  Glyde  en- 
trea,ted  Anne  and  her  good  friend  to  return  immediately 
to  London,  as  she  felt  certain  that  Sir  Percival  would 
discover  them  if  they  remained  any  longer  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Blackwater.  She  was  herself  going  to  London  in 
a  short  time,  and  if  Mrs.  Clements  and  Anne  would  go 
there  first,  and  would  let  her  know  what  their  address  was, 
they  should  hear  from  her  and  see  her  in  a  fortnight  or 
less.  The  Count  added  that  he  had  already  attempted  to 
give  a  friendly  warning  to  Anne  herself,  but  that  she  had 
been  too  much  startled,  by  seeing  that  he  was  a  stranger, 
to  let  him  approach  and  speak  to  her. 

To  this  Mrs.  Clements  replied,  in  the  greatest  alarm  and 
distress,  that  she  asked  nothing  better  than  to  take  Anne 
safely  to  London;  but  that  there  was  no  present  hope  of  re- 
moving her  from  the  dangerous  neighborhood,  as  she  la;^ 
ill  in  her  bed  at  that  moment.  The  Count  inquired  if  Mrs". 
Clements  had  sent  for  medical  advice,  and  hearing  that 
she  had  hitherto  hesitated  to  do  so,  from  the  fear  of  mak- 
ing their  position  publicly  known  in  the  village,  informed 
her  that  he  was  himself  a  medical  man,  and  that  he  would 
go  back  with  her  if  she  pleased,  and  see  what  could  be 
done  for  Anne.  Mrs.  Clements  (feeling  a  natural  confi- 
dence in  the  Count,  as  a  person  trusted  with  a  secret  mes- 
sage from  Lady  Glyde)  gratefully  accepted  the  offer,  and 
they  went  back  together  to  the  cottage. 

Anne   was  asleep    when  they  got  there.      The  Count 


453  THE    WOMAIS"    IN    WHITE. 

started  at  the  sight  of  her  (evidently  from  astonishment  at 
her  resenihh\nce  to  Lady  Gl3'de).  Poor  Mrs.  Clements  sup- 
posed that  he  was  only  shocked  to  see  how  ill  she  was.  He 
would  not  allow  her  to  be  awakened;  he  was  contented  with 
putting  questions  to  Mrs.  Clements  about  her  symptoms, 
with  looking  at  her,  and  wiLli  lightly  touching  her  pulse. 
8andon  was  a  large  enough  place  to  have  a  grocer's  and 
druggist's  shop  in  it,  and  thither  the  Count  went  to  write 
his  prescription  and  to  get  the  medicine  made  up.  He 
brought  it  back  himself,  and  told  Mrs.  Clements  that  the 
medicine  was  a  powerful  stimulant,  and  that  it  would  cer- 
tainly give  Anne  strength  to  get  up  and  bear  the  fatigue  of 
a  journey  to  London  of  only  a  few  hours.  The  remedy  was 
to  be  administered  at  stated  times  on  that  day,  and  on  (he 
day  after.  On  the  third  day  she  would  be  well  enough  to 
travel;  and  he  arranged  to  meet  Mrs.  Clements  at  the 
iilackwater  station,  and  to  see  them  off  by  the  midday 
train.  If  they  did  not  appear  he  would  assume  that  Anne 
was  worse,  and  he  would  proceed  at  once  to  the  cottage. 

As  events  turned  out,  no  such  emergency  'as  this  oc- 
curred. 

The  medicine  had  an  extraordinary  effect  on  Anne,  and 
the  good  retults  of  it  were  helped  by  the  assurance  Mrs. 
Clements  could  now  give  her  that  she  would  soon  see  Lady 
Clyde  in  London.  At  the  appointed  day  and  time  (wiien 
they  had  not  been  quite  s,)  long  as  a  week  in  Hampshire 
altogether)  they  arriverl  at  the  station.  The  Count  was 
waiting  there  for  them,  and  was  talking  to  an  eldeily  lady, 
who  appeared  to  goiijg  to  travel  by  the  train  to  London 
also.  He  most  kindly  assisted  them,  and  put  them  into 
the  carriage  himself,  beggirg  Mrs.  Clements  not  to  forget 
to  send  her  address  to  Lady  Clyde.  The  elderly  lady  did 
not  travel  in  the  same  com})arLment,  and  they  di«d  not  no- 
tice what  became  of  her  on  reaching  the  London  terminus. 
Mrs.  Clements  secured  respectable  lodgings  in  a  quiet  neigh- 
borhood, and  then  wrote,  as  she  had  engaged  to  do,  to  in- 
form Lady  (illyde  of  the  address. 

A  little  more  than  a  fortnight  passed,  and  no  answer 
ca  me. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  a  lady  (the  same  elderly  lady 
whom  they  had  seen  at  the  station)  called  in  a  cab,  and 
s;ii  1  that  she  fame  fn  ui  Lady  Clyde,  who  was  then  at  a 
kolei  iu  Loudon,  and   who   wished  to  see  Mrs.  Clemeufc* 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  453 

for  the  purpose  of  arranging  a  future  interview  with  Anne. 
Mrs.  Clements  expressed  her  willingness  (Anne  being 
present  at  the  time  and  entreating  her  to  do  so)  to  forward 
tiie  object  in  view,  especially  as  she  was  not  required  to  be 
away  from  the  house  for  more  than  half  an  hour  at  the 
most.  She  and  the  elderly  lady  (clearly  Mme.  Fosco)  then 
left  in  Ihe  cab.  The  lady  stopped  the  cab,  after  it  had 
driven  some  distance,  at  a  shop,  before  they  got  to  tiie 
hotel,  and  begged  Mrs.  Clements  to  vvait  for  her  for  a  few 
minutes,  while  she  made  a  purchase  that  had  been  forgot- 
ten.    She  never  appeared  again. 

After  waiting  some  time,  Mrs.  Clements  became  alarmed, 
and  ordered  the  cabman  to  drive  back  to  her  lodgings. 
When  she  got  there,  after  an  absence  of  rather  more  than 
half  an  hour.  Anno  was  gone. 

The  only  information  to  be  obtained  from  the  people  of 
the  house  was  derived  from  the  servant  who  waited  on  the 
lodgers.  She  had  opened  the  door  to  a  boy  from  the  street, 
who  had  left  a  letter  for  "  the  young  woman  who  liv^ed. 
on  the  second,  floor  "  (the  part  of  the  house  which  Mrs. 
Clements  occupied).  The  servant  had  delivered  the  letter, 
had  then  gone  down-stairs,  and,  five  minutes  afterward, 
had  observed  Anne  open  the  front  door  and  go  out,  dressed 
in  her  bonnet  and  shawl.  She  had  probably  taken  the 
letter  with  her,  for  it  was  not  to  be  found,  and  it  was  there- 
fore impossible  to  tell  what  inducement  had  been  offered  to 
make  her  leave  the  house.  It  must  have  been  a  strong 
one,  for  she  would  never  stir  out  alone  in  London  of  her 
own  accord.  If  Mrs.  Clements  had  not  known  by  tliis 
experience,  nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  go  away  in 
the  cab,  even  for  so  short  a  time  as  half  an  hour  only. 

As  soon  as  she  could  collect  her  thoughts,  the  first  idea 
that  naturally  occurred  to  Mrs.  Clements  was  to  go  and 
make  inquiries  at  the  Asylum,  to  which  she  dreaded  that 
Anne  had  been  taken  back. 

She  went  there  the  next  day,  having  been  informed  of  the 
locality  in  which  the  house  was  situated  by  Anne  herself. 
The  answer  she  received  (her  application  having,  in  all 
probability,  been  made  a  day  or  two  before  the  false  Anne 
Catherick  had  really  been  consigned  to  safe-keeping  in  the 
Asylum)  was,  that  no  such  person  had  been  brought  back 
there.  She  had  then  written  to  Mrs.  Catherick,  at  Wei- 
mingham,  to  know  if  she  had  seen  or  Leard  anything  of  her 


454  THE    WOXrAN    IN    WHITE. 

daughter,  and  had  received  an  answer  in  the  negative. 
After  that  reply  had  reached  her,  she  was  at  the  end  of  her 
resources,  and  perfectly  ignorant  where  else  to  inquire,  or 
what  else  to  do.  From  that  time  to  this  she  had  remained 
in  total  ignorance  of  the  cause  of  Anne's  disappearance, 
and  of  the  end  of  Anne's  story. 


VII. 


Thus  far,  the  information  which  I  had  received  from 
Mrs.  Clements — though  it  established  facts  of  which  I  had 
not  been  previously  aware — was  of  a  preliminary  character 
only. 

It  was  clear  that  the  series  of  deceptions  which  had  re- 
moved Anne  Catherick  to  London  and  separated  her  from 
Mrs.  Clements  had  been  accomplished  solely  by  the  Count 
Fosco  and  the  Countess;  and  the  question  whether  any 
part  of  the  conduct  of  husband  or  wife  had  been  of  a 
kind  to  place  either  of  them  within  reach  of  the  law,  might 
be  well  worthy  of  future  consideration.  But  the  purpose 
1  had  now  in  view  led  me  in  another  direction  than  this. 
The  immediate  object  of  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Clements  was  to 
make  some  approach,  at  least,  to  the  discovery  of  Sir 
Percival's  secret;  and  she  had  said  nothing  as  yet  which 
advanced  me  on  my  way  to  that  important  end.  I  felt 
the  necessity  ot  trying  to  awaken  her  recollections  of  other 
times,  persons,  and  events,  than  those  on  which  her  mem- 
ory had  hitherto  been  employed;  and  when  1  next  spoke,  1 
spoke  with  that  object  indirectly  in  view. 

"  1  wish  1  could  be  of  any  help  to  you  in  this  sad  calam- 
ity," I  said.  "All  I  can  do  is  to  feel  heartily  for  your 
distress.  If  Anne  had  been  your  own  cliild,  Mrs.  Clements, 
you  could  have  shown  her  no  truer  kindness — you  could 
have  made  no  readier  sacrifices  for  her  sake." 

"  There's  no  great  merit  in  that,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Clem 
ents,  simply.  "  The  poor  thing  was  as  good  as  my  own 
child  to  me.  I  nursed  her  from  a  baby,  sir,  bringing  her 
up  by  hand — and  a  hard  job  it  was  to  rear  her.  It 
wouldn't  go  to  my  heart  so  to  lose  her,  if  I  hadn't  made  her 
first  short-clothes,  and  taught  her  to  walk.  I  always  said 
she  was  sent  to  console  me  for  never  having  chick  nor  child 
of  my  own.     And  now  she's  lost,  the  old  times  keep  com- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  455 

ing  back  to  my  mind;  and,  even  at  my  age,  I  can*t  help 
crying  about  her — I  can't  indeed,  sir!" 

I  waited  a  little  to  give  Mrs.  Clements  time  to  compose 
herself.  Was  the  light  that  I  had  been  looking  for  so 
long,  glimmering  on  me — far  off,  as  yet — in  the  good  wom- 
an's recollections  of  Anne's  early  life? 

"  Did  you  know  Mrs.  Catherick  before  Anne  was  born?" 
I  asked. 

"  Not  very  long,  sir — not  above  four  months.  We  saw 
a  great  deal  of  each  other  in  that  time,  but  we  were  never 
very  friendly  together." 

Her  voice  was  steadier  as  she  made  that  reply.  Painful 
as  many  of  her  recollections  might  be,  1  observed  that  it 
was,  unconsciously,  a  relief  to  her  mind  to  revert  to  the 
dimly  seen  troubles  of  the  past,  after  dwelling  so  long  on 
the  vivid  sorrows  of  the  present. 

"  Were  you  and  Mrs.  Catherick  neighbors?"  I  inquired, 
leading  her  memory  on  as  encouragingly  as  1  could. 

"  Yes,  sir — neighbors  at  Old  Welmingham." 

"  Old  Welmingham?  There  are  two  places  of  that  name, 
then,  in  Hampshire?" 

"  Well,  sir,  there  used  to  be  in  those  days — better  than 
three-and-twenty  years  ago.  They  built  a  new  town  about 
two  miles  off,  convenient  to  the  river — and  Old  Welming- 
ham, which  was  never  much  more  than  a  village,  got,  in 
time,  to  be  deserted.  The  new  town  is  the  place  they  call 
Welmingham  now,  but  the  old  parish  church  is  the  parish 
church  still.  It  stands  by  itself,  with  the  houses  pulled 
down  or  gone  to  ruin,  all  round  it.  I've  lived  to  see  sad 
changes.     It  was  a  pleasant,  pretty  place  in  my  time." 

"  Did  you  live  there  before  your  marriage,  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents?" 

"  No,  sir — I'm  a  Norfolk  woman.  It  wasn't  the  place 
my  husband  belonged  to  either.  He  was  from  Grimsby, 
as  I  told  you,  and  he  served  his  apprenticeship  there.  But 
having  friends  down  oouth,  and  hearing  of  an  opening,  he 
got  into  business  at  Southampton.  It  was  in  a  small  way, 
but  he  made  enough  for  a  plain  man  to  retire  on,  and  set- 
tled at  Old  Welmingham.  1  went  there  with  him  when  he 
married  me.  We  were  neither  of  us  young,  but  we  lived 
very  happy  together — happier  than  our  neighbor,  Mr.  Cath- 
erick, liv^ed  along  with  his  wife,  when  they  came  to  Old 
Welmingham,  a  year  or  two  afterward.'* 


456  THE    WOMAX    IN    WHITE. 

*'  Was  your  husband  acquainted  with  them  before 
thuL?" 

"  With  Catherick,  sir — not  with  his  wife.  She  was  a 
stranger  to  both  of  us.  Some  gentleman  had  made  interest 
for  Catherick,  and  he  got  the  situation  of  clerk  at  Welm- 
ingham  churchj  which  was  the  reason  of  his  coming  to 
settle  in  our  neighborhood.  He  brought  his  newly  married 
wife  along  witii  him;  and  we  heard  in  course  of  time  she 
had  been  lady's-maid  in  a  family  that  lived  at  Varneok 
Hall,  near  Southampton.  Catherick  had  found  it  a  bard 
matter  to  get  her  to  marry  him,  in  consequence  of  her 
holding  herself  uncommonly  high.  He  had  asked  and  asked, 
and  given  the  thing  up  at  last,  seeing  she  was  so  contrary 
about  it.  When  he  had  given  it  up  she  turned  contrary, 
just  the  other  way,  and  came  to  him  of  her  own  accord, 
without  riiyme  or  reason,  seemingly.  My  poor  husband 
always  said  that  was  the  time  to  have  given  her  a  lesson. 
But  Catherick  was  too  fond  of  her  to  do  anything  of  the 
sort;  he  never  checked  her,  either  before  they  were  married 
or  after.  He  was  a  quick  man  in  his  feelings,  Jetting  them 
carry  him  a  deal  too  far,  now  in  one  way,  and  now  in 
another;  and  he  would  have  spoiled  a  better  v/ife  than  Mrs, 
Catherick,  if  a  better  had  married  him.  I  don't  like  to 
speak  ill  of  any  one,  sir,  but  she  was  a  heartless  woman, 
with  a  terrible  will  of  her  own,  fond  of  foolish  admiration 
ajid  fine  clothes,  not  caring  to  sliow  so  much  as  decent  out- 
ward respect  to  Catherick,  kindly  as  he  always  treated  her. 
My  husband  said  he  thought  things  would  turn  out  badly, 
when  they  first  came  to  live  near  us;  and  his  words  proved 
true.  Before  they  had  been  quite  four  months  in  our 
neighborhood  there  was  a  dreadful  scandal  and  a  miserable 
break-up  in  their  household.  Both  of  them  were  in  fault— 
I  am  afraid  both  of  them  were  equally  in  fault." 

"  You  mean  both  husband  and  wifu?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir!  I  don't  mean  Catherick — he  was  only  to 
be  pitied.     I  meant  his  wife  and  the  person — '' 

"  And  the  person  who  caused  the  scandal?" 

*'  Yes,  sir.  A  gentleman  born  and  brought  up,  who 
ought  to  have  seta  better  example.  You  know  him,  sir — 
and  my  poor  dear  Anne  knew  him  only  too  well." 

"Sir  Percival  Glytle?" 

"Yes;  Si'- Percival  Clyde." 

My  heart  beat   fast — 1  thought  1  had  my  hand  on  the 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  457 

clew.  How  little  I  knew  then  of  the  wiudiugs  of  the  laby- 
rinth which  were  still  to  mislead  me! 

"  Did  Sir  Percival  li.vti  iii  your  neighborhood  at  that 
time?"  I  asked. 

"  No,  sir.  He  came  among  us  as  a  stranger.  His  father 
had  died,  not  long  before,  in  foreign  parts.  1  remember 
he  was  in  mourning.  He  put  up  at  iho  little  inn  on  the 
river  (they  have  pulled  it  down  since  that  time),  where 
gentlemen  used  to  go  to  fish.  He  wasn't  much  noticed 
when  he  first  came— it  was  a  common  thing  enough  for 
gentleman  to  travel  from  all  parts  of  England  to  fish  in 
our  river. " 

"  Did  he  make  his  appearance  in  the  village  before 
Anne  was  born?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Anne  was  born  in  the  June  month  of  eight- 
een hundred  and  twenty-seven,  and  I  think  he  came  at  the 
end  of  April  or  the  beginning  of  May." 

"  Came  as  a  stranger  to  all  of  you?  A  stranger  to  Mrs. 
Catherick,  as  well  as  to  the  rest  of  the  neighbors?" 

"  So  we  thought  at  first,  sir.  But  when  the  scandal 
broke  out  nobody  believed  they  were  strangers.  I  remem- 
ber how  it  happened,  as  well  as  if  it  were  yesterday.  Cath- 
erick  came  into  our  garden  one  night,  and  woke  us  by  throw- 
ing up  a  handful  of  gravel  from  the  walk  at  our  window.  I 
heard  him  beg  my  husband,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  to  omie 
down  and  speak  to  him.  '^I'hey  were  a  long  time  together 
talking  in  the  porch.  When  my  husband  came  back  up- 
stairs he  was  all  of  a  tremble.  lie  sat  down  on  the  side  of 
the  bed,  and  says  to  me  '  Lizzie  I  1  always  told  you  that 
woman  was  a  bad  one;  1  always  said  she  would  end  ill — and 
I'm  afraid,  in  my  own  mind,  that  the  end  has  come  already. 
Catherick  has  found  a  lot  of  lace  handkerchiefs,  and  two 
fine  rings,  and  a  new  gold  watch  and  chain,  hid  away  in 
his  wife's  drawer — things  that  nobody  but  a  born  lady 
ought  ever  to  have — and  his  wife  won't  say  how  she  came 
by  them.'  '  Does  he  think  she  stole  them?'  says  L  '  Ko/ 
says  he,  '  stealing  would  be  bad  enough.  But  it's  worse 
than  that — she's  had  no  chance  of  stealing  such  things  as 
those,  and  she's  not  a  woman  to  take  them  if  she  had. 
They're  gifts,  Lizzie — there's  her  own  initials  engraved 
inside  the  watch — and  Catherick  has  seen  her  talking  pri- 
vately and  carrying  on  as  no  married  woman  should,  with 
that  gentleman  in  mourning — Sir  Percival  Clyde.     Don't 


458  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

you  say  auythliig  about  it — Vve  (juieted  Catlierick  for  to- 
liight.  I've  told  him  to  keep  his  tongue  to  himself,  and 
his  eyes  and  ears  open,  and  to  wait  a  day  or  two,  till  he 
can  be  quite  certain.'  'I  believe  you  are  both  of  you 
wrong,*  says  I.  '  It's  not  in  nature,  comfortable  and  re- 
spectable as  she  is  here,  that  Mrs.  Catherick  should  take 
up  with  a  chance  stranger  like  Sir  Percival  Glyde.*  '  Ay, 
but  is  he  a  stranger  to  her?'  says  my  husband.  '  You 
forget  how  Catherick's  wife  came  to  marry  him.  She  went 
to  him  of  her  own  accord,  after  saying  No  over  and  over 
again  when  he  asked  her.  There  have  been  wicked  women 
before  her  time,  Lizzie,  who  have  used  honest  men  who 
loved  them  as  a  means  of  saving  their  characters,  and  I'm 
sorely  afraid  this  Mrs.  Catherick  is  as  wicked  as  the  worst 
of  them.  We  shall  see,'  says  my  husband,  '  we  shall  soon 
see.*     And  only  two  days  afterward  we  did  see." 

Mrs.  Clements  waited  for  a  moment  before  she  weni  on. 
Even  in  that  moment  1  began  to  doubt  whether  the  clew 
that  I  thought  1  had  found  was  really  leading  me  to  the 
central  mystery  of  the  labyrinth,  after  all.  Was  this  com- 
mon, too  common,  story  of  a  man's  treachery  and  a  woman's 
fraility  the  key  to  a  secret  which  had  been  the  life-long 
terror  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde? 

"  Well,  sir,  Catherick  took  my  husband's  advice,  and 
waited,"  Mrs.  Clements  continued.  "  And,  as  I  told  you, 
he  hadn't  long  to  wait.  On  the  second  day  he  found  his 
wife  and  Sir  Percival  whispering  together  quite  familiar, 
close  under  the  vestry  of  the  church.  I  suppose  they 
thought  the  neighborhood  of  the  vestry  was  the  last  place 
in  the  world  where  anybody  would  think  of  looking  after 
them;  but,  however  that  may  be,  there  they  were.  Sir 
Percival,  being  seemingly  surprised  and  confounded,  de- 
fended himself  in  such  a  guilty  way  that  poor  Catherick 
(whose  quick  temper  I  have  told  you  of  already)  fell  into  a 
kind  of  frenzy  at  his  own  disgrace,  and  struck  Sir  Percival. 
He  was  no  match  (and  I  am  sorry  to  say  it)  for  the  man 
who  had  wronged  him,  and  he  was  beaten  in  the  cruelest 
manner  before  the  neighbors,  who  had  come  to  the  place 
on  hearing  the  disturbance,  could  run  in  and  part  them. 
All  this  happened  toward  evening;  and  before  nightfall, 
when  my  husband  went  to  Catherick's  house,  he  was  gone, 
nobody  knew  where.  No  living  soul  in  the  village  ever  saw 
him  again.     He  knew  too  well,  by  that  time,  what  bis 


th:^.   woMA^r   ik   white.  1£9 

wife's  vile  reason  had  been  for  marrying  him;  and  he  felt 
his  misery  and  disgrace — especially  after  what  had  iiappened 
to  him  with  Sir  Percival — too  keenly.  The  clergyman  of 
the  parish  put  an  advertisement  in  the  paper,  begging  him 
to  come  back,  and  saying  that  he  should  not  lose  his  situa- 
tion or  his  friends.  But  Catherick  had  too  much  pride,  and 
spirit,  as  some  people  said — too  much  feeling,  as  I  think, 
sir — to  face  his  neighbors  again,  and  try  to  live  down  the 
memory  of  his  disgrace.  My  husband  heard  from  him 
when  he  left  England,  and  heard  a  second  time,  when  he 
was  settled,  and  doing  well,  in  America.  He  is  alive 
there  now,  as  far  as  1  know;  but  none  of  us  in  the  Old 
Country — his  wicked  wife  least  of  all — are  ever  likely  to 
set  eyes  on  him  again." 

"  What  became  of  Sir  Percival?"  I  inquired.  "  Did  he 
stay  in  the  neighborhood?" 

*'  Not  he,  sir.  The  place  was  too  hot  to  hold  him.  He 
was  heard  at  high  words  with  Mrs.  Catherick  the  same 
night  when  the  scandal  broke  out,  and  the  next  morning 
he  took  himself  off." 

*'  And  Mrs.  Catherick?  Surely  she  never  remained  in 
the  village,  among  the  people  who  knew  of  her  disgrace?" 

"  She  did,  sir.  She  was  hard  enough  and  heartless 
enough  to  set  the  opinions  of  all  her  neighbors  at  flat  defi- 
ance. She  declared  to  everybody,  from  the  clergyman 
downward,  that  she  was  the  victim  of  a  dreadful  mistake, 
and  that  all  the  scandal-mongers  in  the  place  should  not 
drive  her  out  of  it  as  if  she  was  a  guilty  woman.  All 
through  my  time  she  lived  at  Old  Welmingham;  and  after 
my  time,  when  the  new  town  was  building,  and  the  re- 
spectable neighbors  began  moving  to  it,  she  moved  too,  as 
if  she  was  determined  to  live  among  them  and  scandalize 
them  to  the  very  last.  There  she  is  now,  and  there  she 
will  stop,  in  defiance  of  the  best  of  them,  to  her  dying 
day." 

•'  But  how  has  she  lived,  through  all  these  years?"  I 
asked.     "  Was  her  husband  able  and  willing  to  help  her?" 

*'  Both  able  and  willing,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Clements.  "  In 
the  second  letter  he  wrote  to  my  good  man,  he  said  she  had 
borne  his  name  and  lived  in  his  homo,  and,  wicked  as  she 
was,  she  must  not  starve  like  a  beggar  in  the  street.  He 
.lould  afford  to  make  her  some  small  allowance,  and  she 
might  draw  for  it  quarterly,  at  a  place  in  London." 


460  THK    WOMAN"    IN"    WHITE. 

"  Did  she  accept  the  allowance?" 

"  Not  a  farthing  of  it,  sir.  She  said  she  would  never  be 
!)  h  )ldeii  to  Catherick  for  a  bit  or  drop,  if  she  lived  to  be 
a  hijudred.  And  she  has  kept  her  word  ever  since.  When 
my  poor  dear  husband  died,  and  left  all  to  me,  Catheriok'a 
itater  was  put  in  my  possession  with  the  other  things — and 
I  told  her  to  let  me  know  if  she  was  ever  in  want.  '  I'll 
let  all  England  know  I'm  in  want,'  she  said,  '  before  1  teli 
Catherick,  or  any  friend  of  Catherick's.  Take  that  for 
your  answer;  and  give  it  to  him  for  an  answer,  if  he  ever 
writes  again.'  " 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  she  had  money  of  her  own?'' 

"  Very  little,  if  any,  sir.  It  was  said,  and  said  truly,  I 
am  afraid,  that  her  means  of  living  came  privately  from 
Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

After  that  last  reply,  I  waited  a  little,  to  reconsider  wfiat 
I  had  heard.  If  I  unreservedly  accepted  the  story  so  fur,  it 
was  now  plain  that  no  approach,  direct  or  indirect,  to  the 
Secret  had  yet  been  revealed  to  me,  and  that  the  pursuit  of 
my  object  had  ended  again  in  leaving  me  face  to  face  with 
the  most  palj^able  and  the  most  disheartening  failure. 

Hut  there  was  one  point  in  the  narrative  which  made  me 
doubt  the  propriety  of  accepting  it  unreservedly,  and  which 
sujzgested  the  idea  of  something  hidden  below  the  surface. 

1  could  not  accoinit  to  myself  for  the  circumstance  of  the 
clerk's  gnilty  wife  voluntarily  living  out  all  her  after-exist- 
ence on  the  scene  of  her  disgrace.  The  woman's  own  re- 
ported statement  that  she  had  taken  this  strange  course  as 
a  practical  assertion  of  her  innocence,  did  not  satisfy  me. 
It  seemed,  to  my  mind,  more  natural  and  moreprobjible  to 
assume  that  she  was  not  so  completely  a  free  agent  in  this 
matter  as  she  had  herself  asserted.  In  that  case,  who  was 
the  likeliest  person  to  possess  the  power  of  compelling  her 
to  remain  at  Welmingham?  The  person,  unquestionably, 
from  whom  she  derived  the  means  of  living.  She  had  re- 
fused assistance  from  her  husband,  she  had  no  adequate  re- 
sources of  her  own,  she  was  a  friendless,  degraded  woman: 
from  what  source  should  she  derive  help,  but  from  the 
source  at  which  report  pointed — Sir  Percival  Glyde? 

Reasoning  on  thes?.  assumptions,  and  always  bearing  in 
mind  the  one  certain  fact  to  guide  me,  that  Mrs.  Catherick 
was  in  possession  of  the  Secret,  I  easily  understood  that  it 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  461 

was  Sir  PercivaFs  interest  to  keep  her  at  Welmingham,  be- 
cause her  character  in  that  place  was  cerLaia  to  isolate  her 
from  all  communication  with  female  neighbors,  and  to  al- 
low her  no  opportunities  of  talking  incautiously,  in  mo- 
ments of  free  intercourse  with  inquisitive  bosom  friends. 
But  what  was  the  mystery  to  be  concealed?  Not  Sir  Per- 
cival's  infamous  connection  with  Mrs.  Catherick's  disgrace 
— for  the  neighbors  were  the  very  people  who  knew  of  it 
Not  the  suspicion  that  he  was  Anne's  father — for  Welming- 
ham was  the  place  in  whicii  that  sus})icion  must  inevitably 
exist.  If  I  accepted  the  guilty  appearances  described  to  me 
as  unreservedly  as  others  had  accepted  them;  if  I  drew  from 
them  the  same  superficial  conclusion  which  Mr.  Catherick 
and  all  his  neighbors  had  drawn — where  was  the  sugges- 
tion, in  all  that  I  had  heard,  of  a  dangerous  secret  between 
Sir  Percival  and  Mrs.  Catherick,  wiiich  had  been  kept  hid- 
den from  that  time  to  this? 

And  yet,  in  those  stolen  meetings,  in  those  familiar  whis- 
perings between  the  clerk's  wife  and  "  the  gentleman  in 
mourning,'^  the  clew  to  discovery  existed  beyond  a  doubt. 

Was  it  possible  that  appearances,  in  this  case,  had  point- 
ed one  way,  while  the  truth  lay,  all  the  while  unsuspected, 
in  another  direction?  Could  Mrs.  Catherick's  assertion 
that  she  was  the  victim  of  a  dreadful  mistake,  by  any  pos- 
sibility be  true?  Or,  assuming  it  to  be  false,  could  the  con- 
clusion which  associated  Sir  Percival  with  her  guilt  have 
been  founded  in  some  inconceivable  error?  Had  Sir  Per- 
cival, by  any  chance,  courted  the  suspicion  that  was  wrong, 
for  the  sake  of  diverting  from  himself  some  other  suspicion 
that  was  right?  Here,  if  1  could  find  it — here  was  the  ap- 
proach to  the  Secret,  hidden  deep  under  the  surface  of  the 
apparently  unpromising  story  which  I  had  just  heard. 

My  next  questions  were  now  directed  to  the  one  objec' 
of  ascertaining  whether  Mr.  Catherick  had,  or  kad  not,  ar- 
rived truly  at  the  conviction  of  his  wife's  misconduct.  The 
answers  I  received  from  Mrs.  Clements  left  me  in  no  doubt 
whatever  on  that  point.  Mrs.  Catherick  had,  on  the  clear- 
est evidence,  compromised  her  reputation,  while  a  single 
woman,  with  some  person  unknown,  and  had  married  to 
save  her  character.  It  had  been  positively  ascertained,  by 
calculations  of  time  and  i)lace  into  which  I  need  not  enter 


462  THE    WOMAN    IIT    WHITE. 

particularly,  that  the  daughter  who  bore  her  husband's 
name  was  not  her  husband's  child. 

The  next  object  of  inquiry,  whether  it  was  equally  cer- 
tain that  Sir  Percival  must  have  been  the  father  of  Anne, 
was  beset  by  far  greater  difficulties.  I  was  in  no  position 
to  try  the  probabilities  on  one  side  or  on  tiie  other,  in  this 
instance,  by  any  better  test  than  the  test  of  personal  re- 
semblance. 

' '  I  suppose  you  often  saw  Sir  Percival,  when  he  was  in 
your  village?"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  sir — very  often,"  replied  Mrs.  Clements. 

*'  Did  you  ever  observe  that  Anne  was  like  him?" 

"  She  was  not  at  all  like  him,  sir." 

"  Was  she  like  her  mother,  then?" 

"  Not  like  her  mother  either,  sir.  Mrs.  Catherick  was 
dark,  and  full  in  the  face." 

Not  like  her  mother,  and  not  like  her  (supposed)  father. 
I  knew  that  the  test  by  personal  resemblance  was  not  to  be 
implicitly  trusted — but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  not  to  be 
altogether  rejected  on  that  account.  Was  it  possible  to 
strengthen  the  evidence,  by  discovering  any  conclusive  facts 
in  relation  to  the  lives  of  Mrs.  Catherick  and  Sir  Percival, 
before  they  either  of  them  appeared  at  Old  Welmingham? 
When  I  asked  my  next  questions,  I  put  them  with  this  view. 

"  When  Sir  Percival  first  arrived  in  your  neighborhood," 
I  said,  "  did  you  hear  where  he  had  come  from  last?" 

"  No,  sir.  Some  said  from  Blackwater  Park,  and  some 
said  from  Scotland — but  nobody  knew." 

"  Was  Mrs.  Catherick  living  in  service  at  Varneck  Hall, 
immediately  before  her  marriage?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  had  she  been  long  in  her  place?" 

"  Three  or  four  years,  sir;  I  am  not  quite  certain  which.** 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  name  of  the  gentleman  to  whom 
Varnetk  Hall  belonged  at  that  time?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     His  name  was  Major  Donthorne." 

"  Did  Mr.  Catherick,  or  did  anyone  else  you  knew,  ever 
hear  that  Sir  Percival  was  a  friend  of  Major  Donthorne's, 
or  ever  see  Sir  Percival  in  the  neighborhood  of  Varneck 
Hall?" 

"  Catherick  never  did,  sir,  that  I  can  remember — nor 
any  one  else,  either,  that  I  know  of." 

I  noted  down  Major  Donthorne's  name  and  address,  on 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  463 

the  chance  that  he  might  still  be  alive,  and  that  it  might 
be  useful,  at  some  future  time,  to  apply  to  him.  Mean- 
while the  impression  on  my  mind  was  now  decidedly  adverse 
to  the  opinion  that  Sir  Percival  was  Anne's  father,  and  de- 
cidedly favorable  to  the  conclusion  that  the  secret  of  his 
stolen  interviews  with  Mrs.  Catherick  was  entirely  uncon- 
nected with  the  disgrace  which  the  woman  had  inflicted  on 
her  husband's  good  name.  1  could  think  of  no  further  in- 
quiries which  I  might  make  to  strengthen  this  impression 
— I  could  only  encourage  Mrs.  Clements  to  speak  next  of 
Anne's  early  days,  and  watch  for  any  chance  suggestion 
which  might  in  this  way  offer  itself  to  me. 

"  1  have  not  heard  yet,"  I  said,  "  how  the  poor  child, 
born  in  all  this  sin  and  misery,  came  to  be  trusted,  Mrs. 
Clements,  to  your  care." 

"  There  was  nobody  else,  sir,  to  take  the  little  helpless 
creature  in  hand,"  replied  Mrs.  Clements.  "  The  wicked 
mother  seemed  to  hate  it — as  if  the  poor  baby  was  in  fault! 
— from  the  day  it  was  born.  My  heart  was  heavy  for  the 
child,  and  I  made  the  offer  to  bring  it  up  as  tenderly  as  if 
it  was  my  own." 

"  Did  Anne  remain  entirely  under  your  care  from  that 
time?" 

*'  Not  quite  entirely,  sir.  Mrs.  Catherick  had  her  whims 
and  fancies  about  it  at  times,  and  used  now  and  then  to  lay 
claim  to  the  child,  as  if  she  wanted  to  spite  me  for  bring- 
ing it  up.  But  these  fits  of  hers  never  lasted  for  long. 
Poor  little  Anne  was  always  returned  to  me,  and  was  always 
glad  to  get  back,  though  she  led  but  a  gloomy  life  in  my 
house,  having  no  playmates,  like  other  children,  to  brighten 
her  up.  Our  longest  separation  was  when  her  mother  took 
her  to  Limmeridge.  Just  at  that  time  I  lost  my  husband, 
and  I  felt  it  was  as  well,  in  that  miserable  affliction,  that 
Anne  should  not  be  in  the  house.  She  was  between  ten 
and  eleven  years  old  then,  slow  at  her  lessons,  poor  soul, 
and  not  so  cheerful  as  other  children — but  as  pretty  a  little 
girl  to  look  at  as  you  would  wish  to  see.  I  waited  at  home 
till  her  mother  brought  her  back;  and  then  I  made  the 
offer  to  take  her  with  me  to  London — the  truth  being,  sir, 
that  1  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  stop  at  Old  Wel- 
mingham,  after  my  husband's  death,  the  place  was  so 
changed  and  so  dismal  to  me." 

*'  And  did  Mrs.  Catherick  consent  to  your  proposal?" 


464  TEE    WOMAX    rX    VHITE. 

*'  No,  sir.  She  came  back  from  the  North  harder  and 
bitterer  than  ever.  Folks  did  say  that  she  had  been  obliged 
to  asii  Sir  Percival's  leave  to  go,  to  begin  with,  aud  Uiat 
she  only  went  to  nurse  her  dying  sister  at  Limmeridge  be- 
cause the  poor  woman  was  reported  to  have  saved  money 
— the  truth  being  that  she  hardly  left  enough  to  bury  her. 
These  things  may  have  soured  Mrs.  Catherick,  likely  enough 
— but,  however  that  may  be,  she  wouldn't  hear  of  my  tak- 
ing the  child  away.  She  seemed  to  like  distressing  us  both 
by  parting  us.  All  I  could  do  was  to  give  Anne  my  direc- 
tion, and  to  tell  her  privately,  if  she  was  ever  in  trouble, 
to  cnme  to  me.  But  years  passed  before  she  was  free  to 
come.  I  never  saw  her  again,  poor  soul,  till  the  night  she 
escaped  from  the  mad-house." 

"  You  know,  Mrs.  Clements,  why  Sir  Percival  Glyde 
shut  her  up?" 

"  I  only  know  what  Anne  herself  told  nie,  sir.  The 
poor  thing  used  to  ramble  and  wander  about  it  sadly.  She 
sind  her  mother  had  got  some  secret  of  Sir  Percival's  to 
keep,  and  had  let  it  out  to  her,  long  after  I  left  Hampshire 
— and  when  Sir  Percival  found  she  knew  it,  he  shut  her  up. 
But  she  never  could  say  what  it  was,  when  I  asked  her. 
All  she  could  tell  me  was  that  her  mother  might  be  the 
ruin  and  destruction  of  Sir  Percival,  if  she  chose.  Mrs. 
Catherick  may  have  let  out  just  as  much  as  that,  and  no 
more.  I'm  next  to  certain  1  should  have  heard  the  whole 
truth  from  Anne,  if  she  had  really  known  it,  as  she  pre- 
tended to  do — and  as  she  very  likely  fancied  she  did,  poor 
soul.'^ 

This  idea  had  more  than  once  occurred  to  my  own  mind. 
I  had  already  told  Marian  that  I  doubted  whether  Laura 
was  really  on  the  point  of  making  any  important  discovery 
when  she  and  Anne  Catherick  were  disturbed  by  Count 
Fosco  at  the  boat-house.  It  was  perfectly  in  character  with 
Anne's  mental  atHiction  that  she  should  assume  an  absolute 
knowledge  of  the  Secret  on  no  better  grounds  than  vague 
suspicion,  derived  from  hints  which  her  mother  had  incau- 
tiously let  drop  in  her  presence.  Sir  Percival's  guilty  dis- 
trust would,  in  that  case,  infallibly  inspire  him  with  the 
false  idea  that  Anne  knew  all  from  her  mother,  just  as  it 
hud  afterward  fixed  in  his  mind  the  equally  false  suspicion 
that  his  wife  knew  all  from  Anne. 

The  time  w^as  passing,  the  morning  was  wearing  away. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  465 

It  was  (lonbtful,  if  I  stayed  longer,  whether  I  shoiilrl  hear 
anything  more  from  Mrs,  Clements  that  would  be  at  aii 
udehil  to  my  purpose.  1  had  already  discovered  those  local 
;ind  family  particulars  iu  relation  to  Mrs.  Catherick  of 
which  I  had  been  in  search;  and  I  had  arrived  at  certain 
conclusions,  entirely  new  to  mo,  which  might  immensely 
assist  in  directing  the  course  of  my  future  proceeding?.  1 
rose  to  take  my  leave,  and  to  thank  Mrs.  Clements  for  the 
;fi-iendly  readiness  she  had  shown  in  affording  me  iuforma' 
tion. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must  have  thought  me  very  inquisi> 
'  tive,"  I  said.  "  I  have  troubled  you  with  more  quesliona 
than  many  people  would  have  cared  to  answer.'^ 

"  You  are  heartily  welcome,  sir,  to  anytiiing  I  can  teli 
you,"  answered  Mrs.  Clements,  She  stopped,  and  looked 
at  me  wistfully.  "  But  1  do  wish,'*'  said  the  poor  woman, 
"  you  could  have  told  me  a  little  more  about  Anne,  sir.  I 
thought  1  saw  something  in  your  face,  when  you  came  in, 
which  looked  as  if  you  could.  You  can't  think  how  hard 
it  is,  not  even  to  know  whether  slie  is  living  or  d^ad.  I 
could  bear  it  better  if  1  was  only  certain.  You  said  you 
never  expected  we  should  see  her  alive  again.  Do  vou 
know,  sir — do  you  know  '"or  truth — that  it  has  pleased  God 
to  take  her?" 

1  was  not  proof  against  this  appeal;  it  would  have  been 
unspeakably  mean  and  cruel  of  me  if  I  had  resisted  it. 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  truth,"  I  an- 
swered, gently;  "  I  have  the  certainty,  in  my  own  mind, 
^hat  her  troubles  in  this  world  are  over." 

The  poor  woman  dropped  into  her  chair,  and  hid  her 
face  from  me.  "  Oh,  sir,"  she  said,  "how  do  you  know 
it?     Who  can  have  told  you?" 

"  No  one  has  told  me,  Mrs.  Clements.  But  I  have  rea- 
sons for  feeling  sure  of  it — reasons  which  1  promise  you 
shall  know  as  soon  as  I  can  safely  explain  them.  lam  cer- 
tain she  was  not  neglei;ted  in  her  last  moments;  1  am  cer- 
tain the  heart-compiaint,  from  which  she  suffered  so  sadly, 
was  the  true  cause  of  her  death.  You  shall  feel  as  sure  of 
this  as  I  do,  soon — you  shall  know,  before  long,  that  she 
is  buried  in  a  quiet  country  church-yard;  in  a  pretty,  peace- 
ful place,  which  you  might  have  chosen  for  her  yourself." 

"Deadl"  said  Mrs,  Clements;  "  dead  so  young — and  1 
am  left  to  hear  it!    I  made  her  first  short  frocks.     I  taught 


466  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

her  to  walk.  The  first  time  she  ever  said  Mother,  she  said 
it  to  me — and  now  I  am  left,  and  Anne  is  taken!  Did  you 
»ay,  sir,"  said  the  poor  woman,  removing  the  handkerchief 
from  her  face,  and  lookiug  up  at  me  for  the  first  time — 
*'  did  you  say  that  she  had  been  nicely  buried?  Was  it  the 
sort  of  funeral  she  might  have  had  if  she  had  really  been, 
my  own  child?" 

1  assured  her  that  it  was.  She  seemed  to  take  an  inex- 
plicable pride  in  my  answer — to  find  a  comfort  in  it,  which 
no  other  and  higher  considerations  could  afford.  "  It 
would  have  broken  my  heart,"  she  said,  simply,  "  if  Anne 
had  not  been  nicely  buried — but,  how  do  you  know  it,  sir? 
who  told  you?"  1  once  more  entreated  her  to  wait  until  I 
could  speak  to  her  unreservedly.  "  You  are  sure  to  see 
me  again,"  I  said;  "for  1  have  a  favor  to  ask,  when  you 
are  a  little  more  composed — perhaps  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  Don't  keep  it  waiting,  sir,  on  my  account,"  said  Mrs. 
Clements.  "  Never  mind  my  crying,  if  I  can  be  of  use. 
If  you  have  anything  on  your  mind  to  say  to  me,  sir — 
please  to  say  it  now." 

"  1  only  wish  to  ask  you  one  last  question,"  I  said.  "  1 
only  want  to  know  Mrs.  Catherick's  address  at  Welming- 
ham." 

My  request  so  startled  Mrs.  Clements,  that,  for  the  mo- 
ment, even  the  tidings  of  Anne's  death  seemed  to  be  driven 
from  her  mind.  Her  tears  suddenly  ceased  to  flow,  and  she 
sat  looking  at  me  in  blank  amazement. 

"  For  the  Lord's  sake,  sir!"  she  said,  '*  what  do  you 
want  with  Mrs.  Catherick?" 

"I  want  this,  Mrs.  Clements,"  1  replied:  "I  want  to 
know  the  secret  of  those  private  meetings  of  hers  with  Sir 
Percival  Glyde.  There  is  something  more,  in  what  you 
have  told  me  of  that  woman's  past  conduct  and  of  that 
man's  past  relations  with  her,  than  you,  or  any  of  your 
neighbors,  ever  suspected.  There  is  a  Secret  we  none  of  us 
know  of  between  those  two — and  I  am  going  to  Mrs.  Cath- 
erick, with  the  resolution  to  find  it  out." 

"  Think  twice  about  it,  sir!"  said  Mrs.  Clements,  ris- 
ing, in  her  earnestness,  and  laying  her  hand  on  my  arm. 
"She's  an  awful  woman — you  don't  know  her  as  I  do. 
Think  twice  about  it." 

"  I  am  sure  your  warning  is  kindly  meant,  Mrs.  Clem- 


till:  woMAif  m  WHITE.  46? 

ents.  But  1  am  determined  to  see  the  woman,  whatever 
comes  of  it." 

Mrs.  Clements  looked  me  anxiously  in  the  face. 

"  1  see  your  mind  is  made  up,  sir,"  she  said.  "  I  will 
give  you  the  address." 

1  wrote  it  down  in  my  pocket-book,  and  then  took  her 
hand  to  say  farewell. 

"You  shall  hear  from  me  soon,"  I  said;  "  you  shall 
know  all  that  I  have  promised  to  tell  you." 

Mrs.  Clements  sighed,  and  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

*'  An  old  woman's  advice  is  sometimes  worth  taking, 
sir,"  she  said.  "  Think  twice  before  you  go  to  Welming- 
ham." 


Vlll. 


When  I  reached  home  again,  after  my  interview  with 
Mrs.  Clements,  1  was  struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  change 
in  Laura. 

The  unvarying  gentleness  and  patience  which  long  mis- 
fortune had  tried  so  cruelly  and  had  never  conquered  yet, 
seemed  not  to  have  suddenly  failed  her.  Insensible  to  all 
Marian's  attempts  to  soothe  and  amuse  her,  she  sat,  with 
her  neglected  drawing  pushed  away  on  the  table,  her  eyes 
resolutely  cast  down,  her  fingers  twining  and  untwining 
themselves  restlessly  in  her  lap.  Marian  rose  when  1  came 
in,  with  a  silent  distress  in  her  face;  waited  for  a  moment,  to 
see  if  Laura  would  look  up  at  my  approach;  whispered  to 
me,  "  Try  if  yoti  can  rouse  her;"  and  left  the  room. 

1  sat  down  in  the  vacant  chair,  gently  unclasped  the 
poor,  worn,  restless  fingers,  and  took  both  her  hands  in 
mine. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Laura?  Tell  me,  my  dar- 
Img — try  and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

bhe  struggled  with  herself,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  mine. 
"  1  can't  feel  happy,"  she  said;  "  Ican't  help  thinking— " 
She  stopped,  bent  forward  a  little,  and  laid  her  head  on  my 
shoulder,  with  a  terrible  mute  helplessness  that  struck  me 
to  the  heart. 

•'  Try  to  tell  me,"  1  repeated,  gently;  "  try  to  tell  me 
why  you  are  not  happy." 

"  I  am  so  useless— I  am  such  a  burden  on  both  of  you," 
she  answered,  with  a  weary,  hopeless  sigh.     "  You  work 


468  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

and  get  money,  Walter;  and  Marian  helps  you.  Why  is 
there  nothhig  I  can  do?  You  will  end  in  lil^iug  Marian 
better  than  you  like  me — you  will,  because  1  am  so  help- 
less?    Oh,  don't,  don't,  don't  treat  me  like  a  child!" 

I  raised  her  head,  arid  smoothed  away  the  tangled  hair 
that  fell  over  her  face,  and  kissed  her — my  poor,  faded 
flower!  my  lost,  afflicted  sister!  "  You  shall  help  us, 
Laura,"  I  said;  "  you  shall  begin,  my  darling,  to-day." 

She  looked  at  nij  with  a  feverish  eagerness,  with  a  breath- 
less interest,  that  made  me  tremble  for  the  new  life  of  hope 
which  I  had  called  into  being  by  th  )se  few  words. 

1  rose,  and  set  her  drawing  materials  in  order,  and 
placed  them  near  her  again. 

"  You  know  that  I  work  and  get  money  by  drawing,"  I 
said.  "  Now  you  have  taken  such  pains,  now  you  are  so 
much  improved,  you  shall  begin  to  work  and  get  money, 
too.  Try  to  finish  this  little  sketch  as  nicely  and  prettily 
as  you  can.  When  it  is  done,  I  will  take  it  away  with  me; 
and  the  same  person  will  buy  it  who  buys  all  that  i  do. 
You  shall  keep  your  own  earnings  in  your  own  purse,  and 
Marian  shall  come  to  you  to  help  us  as  often  as  she  comes 
to  me.  Think  how  useful  you  aie  going  to  make  yourself 
to  both  of  us,  and  you  will  soon  be  as  happy,  Laura,  as  the 
day  is  long." 

Her  face  grew  eager,  and  brightened  into  a  smile.  In 
the  morale  lit  while  it  lasted,  in  the  moment  when  she  again 
took  up  the  pencils  that  bad  been  laid  aside,  she  almost 
looked  like  the  Laura  of  past  days. 

I  had  rightly  interpreted  the  first  signs  of  a  new  growth 
and  strength  in  her  mind,  unconsciously  expressing  them- 
selves in  the  notice  she  had  taken  of  the  occupations  which 
filled  her  sister's  life  and  mine.  Marian  (when  I  told  her 
what  had  passed)  saw,  as  1  saw,  that  she  was  longing  to 
assume  her  own  little  position  of  importance,  to  raise  her- 
self in  her  own  estimation  and  in  ours — and,  from  that  day, 
we  tenderly  helped  the  new  ambition  which  gave  promise 
of  the  hopeful,  happier  future,  that  might  now  not  be  far 
off.  Her  drawings,  as  she  finished  them,  or  tried  to  finish 
them,  were  placed  in  my  hands;  Marian  took  them  f;om 
me  and  hid  them  carefully;  and  I  set  aside  a  little  weei\ly 
tribute  from  my  eurnings,  to  be  oifered  to  her  as  the  price 
paiii  by  strangers  for  the  poor,  faint,  valueless  sketches,  of 
which   1  was  the  only  purchaser,     it  was  hard  sometimes 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  469 

to  maintain  our  innocent  deception,  when  she  proudly 
brought  out  her  purse  to  contribute  her  share  toward  the 
expenses,  and  wondered,  with  serious  interest,  where  I  or 
fhe  liad  earned  the  most  that  week.  I  have  all  those  hid- 
den drawings  in  my  possession  still:  they  are  my  treasures 
oeyoud  price — the  dear  remembrances  that  I  love  to  keep 
alive — the  friends,  in  past  adversitv,  that  my  heart  will 
never  part  from,  my  tenderness  never  forget. 

Am  I  trifling,  here,  with  the  necessiti  s  of  my  task?  am 
1  looking  forward  to  the  happier  time  which  my  narrative 
has  not  yet  reached?  Yes.  Back  again — hack  to  the  days 
of  doubt  and  dread,  when  the  spirit  within  me  struggled 
hard  for  its  life,  in  the  icy  stillness  of  perpetual  suspense. 
1  have  paused  and  rested  for  awhile  on  my  forward  course. 
It  is  not,  perhaps,  time  wasted,  if  the  friends  who  read 
these  pages  have  paused  and  rested  too. 

1  took  the  first  opportunity  1  could  find  of  speaking  to 
Marian  in  private,  and  of  communicating  to  her  the  result 
of  the  inquiries  which  I  had  made  that  morning.  She 
seemed  to  share  the  opinion  on  the  subject  of  my  proposed 
journey  to  Welmingham  which  Mrs.  Clements  had  already 
expressed  to  me. 

"  Surely,  Walter,"  she  said,  "  you  hardly  know  enough 
yet  to  give  you  any  hope  of  claiming  Mrs.  Catherick's  con- 
fidence? Is  it  wise  to  proceed  to  these  extremities  before 
you  have  really  exhausted  all  safer  and  simpler  means  of 
attaining  your  object?  When  you  told  me  thai:  Sir  Per- 
cival  and  the  Count  were  the  only  two  people  in  existence 
who  knew  the  exact  date  of  Laura's  journey,  yon  forgot, 
and  I  forgot,  that  there  was  a  third  person  who  mu'-:t  surely 
know  it — 1  mean  Mrs.  Ivubelle,  Would  it  not  be  far  eas- 
ier, and  far  less  dangez'ous,  to  insist  on  a  confession  from 
her,  than  to  force  it  from  Sir  Percival?" 

"  It  might  be  easier,"  I  replied;  "  but  we  are  not  aware 
of  the  full  extent  of  Mrs.  Eubelle's  connivance  and  interest 
in  the  conspiracy;  and  we  are  therefore  not  certain  that 
the  date  has  been  impressed  on  her  mind,  as  it  has  been 
a-^^uredly  impressed  on  the  minds  of  Sir  Percival  and  the 
(■nunt.  It  is  too  late,  now,  to  waste  the  time  on  Mrs.  Rii- 
h.iie,  which  may  be  all-important  to  the  discovery  of  the 
one.  assailable  point  in  Sir  Percival's  life.  Are  you  think- 
ing a  111  lie  too  serir>ns!y,  Marian,  of  the  risk  1  may  run  in 
I'eturumg  to  HampsUue?     Are   you  beginning  to  doubt 


170  THE    WOMAN    IN    "WHITE. 

whether  Sir  Percival  Glyde  may  not,  in  the  end,  be  more 
than  a  match  for  me?" 

"  He  will  not  be  more  than  your  match,"  she  replied, 
decidedly,  "  because  he  will  not  be  helped  in  resisting  you 
by  the  impenetrable  wickedness  of  the  Count.'" 

"  What  has  led  you  to  that  conclusion?"  I  asked,  in 
i3ome  surprise. 

"  My  own  knowledge  of  Sir  Percival's  obstinacy  and  im- 
patience of  tlie  Count's  control,"  she  answered.  "  1  be- 
lieve he  will  insist  on  meeting  you  single-handed — just  as 
he  insisted,  at  first,  on  acting  for  himself  at  Blackwater 
Park.  The  time  for  suspecting  the  Count's  interference 
will  be  the  time  when  you  have  Sir  Percival  at  your  mercy. 
His  own  interests  will  then  be  directly  threatened — and  he 
will  act,  Walter,  to  terrible  purpose  in  his  own  defense." 

"  We  may  deprive  him  of  his  weapons  beforehand,"  I 
said.  "  Some  of  the  particulars  1  have  heard  from  Mrs. 
Clements  may  yet  be  turned  to  account  against  him,  and 
other  means  of  strengthening  the  case  may  be  at  our  dis- 
posal. There  are  passages  in  Mrs.  Michelson's  narrative 
which  show  that  the  Count  found  it  necessary  to  place  him- 
self in  communication  with  Mr.  Fairlie,  and  there  may  be 
circumstances  which  compromise  him  in  that  proceeding. 
While  I  am  away,  Marian,  write  to  Mr.  Faiilie,  ai  d  say  that 
you  want  an  answer  describing  exactly  what  passed  between 
the  Count  and  himself,  and  informing  you  also  of  any  par- 
ticulars that  may  have  come  to  his  knowledge,  at  the  same 
time,  in  connection  with  his  niece.  Tell  liini  that  the 
statement  you  request  will,  sooner  or  later,  be  insisted  on, 
if  he  shows  any  re]uc(:ance  to  furnish  you  wiih  it  of  his  own 
accord." 

"  The  letter  shall  be  written,  AValter.  But  are  you 
really  determined  to  go  to  Welmingham.-'" 

"  Absolutely  determined.  I  will  devote  the  next  two 
days  to  earning  what  we  want  for  the  week  to  come,  and 
on  the  third  day  1  go  to  Hampshire." 

When  the  third  day  came,  I  was  ready  for  m\'  journey. 

iSa  it  was  possible  that  I  might  be  absent  for  some  little 
time.  1  arranged  with  Marian  that  we  were  to  correspond 
every  day,  of  course  addressing  each  other  by  assumed 
names,  for  caution's  sake.  As  long  as  I  heard  from  Iter 
regularly  I  should  assume  that  nothing  was  wrong.  But 
if  the  morning  came  and  brought  me  no  letter,  my  return 


THE  WOMAK  IN  WHITE.  ill 

to  London  would  take  place,  as  a  matter  of  course,  by  the 
first  train.  I  coutrived  to  reconcile  Laura  to  my  departure 
by  telling  her  that  I  was  going  to  the  country  to  find  new 
purchasers  lor  her  drawings  and  for  mine,  and  I  left  her 
occupied  and  happy.  Marian  followed  me  down-stairs  to 
the  street  door. 

"Remember  what  anxious  hearts  you  leave  here,"  she 
whispered,  as  we  stood  together  in  the  passage  ;  "  remem- 
ber all  the  hopes  that  hang  on  your  safe  return.  If  strange 
things  happen  to  you  on  your  journey,  if  you  and  Sir 
Percival  meet — " 

"  What  makes  you  think  we  shall  meet  ?"  I  asked. 

**  I  don't  know — I  have  fears  and  fancies  that  I  can't 
account  for.  Laugh  at  them,  Walter,  if  you  like — but, 
for  God's  sake,  keep  your  temper  if  you  come  in  contact 
with  that  man  !  " 

''Never  fear,  Marian  !     I  answer  for  my  self  control." 

With  those  words  we  parted. 

I  walked  briskly  to  the  station.  There  was  a  glow  of 
hope  in  me;  there  was  a  growing  conviction  in  my  mind 
that  my  journey,  this  time,  would  not  be  taken  in  vain. 
It  was  a  fine,  clear,  cold  morning  ;  my  nerves  were  firmly 
strung,  and  I  felt  all  the  strength  of  my  resolution  stir- 
ring in  me  vigorously  from  head  to  foot. 

As  I  crossed  the  railway  platform  and  looked  right  and 
left  among  the  people  congregated  on  it,  to  search  for  any 
faces  among  them  that  I  knew,  the  doubt  occurred  to  me 
whether  it  might  not  have  been  to  my  advantage  if  I  had 
adopted  a  disguise  before  setting  out  for  Hampshire.  But 
tliere  was  something  so  repellent  to  me  in  the  idea — some- 
thing so  meanly  like  the  common  herdof  spies  and  inform- 
ers in  the  mere  act  of  adopting  a  diguise — that  I  dismissed 
the  question  from  consideration  almost  as  soon  as  it  had 
risen  in  my  mind.  Even  as  a  mere  matter  of  expediency, 
the  proceeding  was  doubtful  in  the  extreme.  If  I  tried  the 
experiment  at  home,  the  landlord  of  the  house  would,  sooner 
or  later,  discover  me,  and  would  have  his  suspicions  aroused 
immediately.  If  I  tried  it  away  from  home,  the  same  per- 
sons might  see  me,  by  the  commonest  accident,  with  the 
disguise  and  without  it ;  and  I  should,  in  that  way,  be  in- 
viting the  notice  and  distrust  which  it  was  my  most  press- 
ing interest  to  avoid.     In  my  own  character  I  had  acted 


4?S  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

t.hus  far,  and  m  my  own  character  I  was  resolved  to  con' 
dnue  to  the  snd. 
The  tram  left  me  at  'Velmi?ighani  early  in  the  afternoon. 

Is  there  any  wilderness  of  sand  in  the  deserts  of  Arabia, 
is  there  any  prospect  of  desolation  among  the  ruins  of 
Palestine,  which  can  rival  the  repelling  effect  on  the  e^'^e 
and  the  depressing  influence  on  the  mind,  of  an  English 
country  town  in  the  first  stage  of  its  existence,  and  in  the 
cransition  state  of  its  prosperity?  I  asked  myself  that 
question  as  I  passed  through  the  clean  desolation,  the  neat 
ugliness,  tiie  prim  torpor  of  the  streets  of  Welmingham. 
And  the  tradesmen  who  stared  after  me  from  their  lonely 
shops;  the  trees  that  drooped  helpless  in  their  arid  exile  of 
unfinished  crescents  and  squares;  the  dead  house-carcassesf 
that  waited  in  vain  for  the  vivifying  human  element  to  ani- 
mate them  with  the  breath  of  life;  every  creature  that  1 
saw;  every  object  that  1  passed — seemed  to  answer  with  one 
accord:  The  deserts  of  Arabia  are  innocent  of  our  civilized 
desolation;  the  ruins  of  Palestine  are  incapable  of  oni 
modern  gloom! 

1  inquired  my  way  to  the  quarter  of  the  town  in  which 
Mrs.  Catherick  lived,  and  on  reaching  it  found  myself  in  a 
square  of  small  houses,  one  story  high.  There  was  a  bare 
little  plot  of  grass  in  the  middle,  protected  by  a  cheap  wire 
fence.  An  elderly  nurse-maid  and  two  children  were  stand' 
ing  in  a  corner  of  the  inclosure,  looking  at  a  lean  goat 
tethered  to  the  grass.  Two  foot-passengers  were  talking 
together  on  one  side  of  the  pavement  before  the  houses, 
and  an  idle  little  boy  was  leading  an  idle  little  dog  along 
by  a  string  on  the  other.  I  heard  the  dull  tinkling  of  a 
piano  at  a  distance,  accompanied  by  the  intermittent  knock- 
ing of  a  hammer  nearer  at  hand.  These  were  all  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  life  that  encountered  me  when  I  entered  the 
square. 

I  walked  at  once  to  the  door  of  Number  Thirteen — the 
number  of  Mrs,  Catherick's  house — and  knocked,  without 
wailing  to  consider  beforehand  how  I  might  best  present 
myself  when  I  got  in.  The  first  necessity  was  to  see  Mrs. 
t'atherick.  I  could  then  judge,  from  my  own  observation, 
of  the  safest  and  easiest  manner  of  approaching  the  object 
i:i  my  visit. 

'J'he  door  was    opened    by  a  melancholy,  middle-aged 


THE    -WOifAN"    IN-    WHITE.  473 

woman -servant.  I  gave  her  my  card,  and  asked  if  I  could 
860  Mrs.  Catherick.  The  card  was  taken  into  the  front 
parlor,  and  Llie  servant  returned  with  a  message  requesting 
lae  to  mention  what  my  business  was, 

"  Say,  if  you  please,  that  my  business  relates  to  Mrs. 
Catherick 's  daughter,"  I  replied.  This  was  the  best  pre- 
text I  could  think  of,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  to  ac- 
count for  my  visit. 

The  servant  again  retired  to  the  parlor,  again  returned, 
and  this  time  begged  me,  with  a  look  of  gloomy  amaze- 
ment, to  walk  in. 

I  entered  a  little-  room  with  a  flaring  paper,  of  the  largest 
pattern,  on  the  walls.  Chairs,  tables,  chiffonier,  and  sofa, 
all  gleamed  with  the  glutinous  brightness  of  cheap  uphol- 
stery. On  the  largest  table,  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
stood  a  smart  Bible,  placed  exactly  in  the  center,  on  a  red 
and  yellow  woolen  mat;  and  at  the  side  of  the  table  near- 
est to  the  window,  with  a  little  knitting-basket  on  her  lap, 
and  a  wheezing,  blear-eyed  old  spaniel  crouched  at  her  feet, 
there  sat  an  elderly  woman,  wearing  a  black  net  cap  and  a 
black  silk  gown,  and  having  slate-colored  mittens  on  her 
hands.  Her  iron-gray  hair  hung  in  heavy  bands  on  either 
side  of  her  face;  her  dark  eyes  looked  straight  forward, 
with  a  hard,  defiant,  implacable  stare.  She  had  full,  square 
cheeks;  a  long,  firm  chin;  and  thick,  sensual,  colorless  lips. 
Her  figure  was  stout  and  sturdy,  and  her  manner  ag- 
gressively self-possessed.     This  was  Mrs.  Catherick. 

"  You  have  come  to  speak  to  me  about  my  daughter," 
she  said,  before  1  could  utter  a  word  on  my  side.  "  Be  so 
good  as  to  mention  what  you  have  to  say." 

The  tone  of  her  voice  was  as  hard,  as  defiant,  as  implac- 
able as  the  expression  of  her  eyes.  She  pointed  to  a  chair, 
and  looked  me  all  over  attentively,  from  head  to  foot,  as  I 
sat  down  in  it.  I  saw  that  my  only  chance  with  this  wom- 
an was  to  speak  to  her  in  her  own  tone,  and  to  meet  her, 
at  the  outset  of  our  interview,  on  her  own  ground. 

"  You  are  aware,"  I  said,  "  that  your  daughter  has  been 
lost?" 

"  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  it." 

"  Have  you  felt  any  apprehension  that  the  misfortune  of 
hor  loss  might  be  followed  by  the  misfortune  of  her  death?" 

"  Yes.     Have  you  come  here  to  tell  nie  she  is  dead?" 

"Ibam" 


47i  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  Why?" 

She  put  that  extraordinary  question  without  the  slight- 
est change  in  her  voice,  her  face,  or  her  manner.  She 
coukl  not  have  appeared  more  perfectly  unconcerned  if  1 
had  told  her  of  the  death  of  the  goat  in  the  inclosure  out- 
side. 

"  Why?"  1  repeated.  "  Do  you  ask  why  I  come  here 
to  tell  you  of  your  daughter's  death?" 

"  Yes.  What  interest  have  you  in  me,  or  in  her?  How 
do  you  come  to  know  anything  about  my  daughter?" 

"■  In  this  way:  J  met  her  on  the  night  when  she  escaped 
from  the  Asylum;  and  I  assisted  her  in  reaching  a  place 
of  safety. " 

"  You  did  very  wrong.'* 

'  I  am  sorry  to  hear  her  mother  say  so.'* 

"  Her  mother  does  say  so.  How  do  you  know  she  is 
dead?" 

"  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  say  how  I  know  it;  but  I  do 
know  it.'' 

"  Are  you  at  liberty  to  say  how  you  found  out  my  ad- 
dress?" 

"  Certainly.     I  got  your  address  from  Mrs.  Clements." 

"  Mrs.  Clements  is  a  foolish  woman.  Did  she  tell  you 
to  come  here?" 

"She  did  not." 

"  Then,  I  ask  you  again,  why  did  you  come?" 

As  she  was  jdetermined  to  have  her  answer,  I  gave  it  to 
her  in  the  plainest  possible  form. 

"  I  came,"  I  said,  *'  because  I  thought  Anne  Catherick's 
mother  might  have  some  natural  interest  in  knowing 
■whether  she  was  alive  or  dead." 

"Just  so,"  said  Mrs.  Catherick,  with  additional  self- 
possession.     "  Had  you  no  other  motive?" 

1  hesitated.  The  right  answer  to  that  question  was  not 
easy  to  find,  at  a  moment's  notice. 

"  If  you  have  no  other  motive,"  she  went  on,  deliber- 
ately taking  off  her  slate-calored  mittens  ani  rolling  them 
up,  "I  have  only  to  thank  you  for  your  visit,  and  to  say 
that  I  will  not  detain  you  here  any  longer.  Your  informa- 
tion would  be  more  satisfactory  if  you  were  willing  to  ex- 
plain how  yon  became  possessed  of  it.  However,  it  justi- 
Dos  me^  I  suppose,  in  going  into  mourning.     There  is  not 


THE   WOMAN   IK   WHITE.  475 

much  alteration  necessary  in  my  dress,  as  you  see.  When 
I  iiave  changed  my  mittens,  I  sliall  be  all  in  black." 

She  searched  in  the  pocket  of  her  gown  ;  drew  out  a 
pair  of  black  lace  mittens  ;  put  them  on  witii  the  stoniest 
and  steadiest  composure ;  and  then  quietly  crossed  her 
hands  in  her  lap. 

*'  I  wish  you  good-morning/'  she  said. 

The  cool  contempt  of  her  manner  irritated  me  into  di- 
rectly avowing  that  the  purpose  of  my  visit  had  not  been 
answered  yet. 

**  I  have  another  motive  in  coming  here,"  I  said. 

*'  Ah  !  I  thought  so,"  remarked  Mrs.  Catherick. 

"  Your  daughter's  death — " 

*' What  did  she  die  of  ?" 

"  Of  disease  of  the  heart." 

"Yes.     Goon." 

"  Your  daughter's  death  has  been  made  the  pretext  for 
inflicting  serious  injury  on  a  person  who  is  very  dear  to 
me.  Two  men  have  been  concerned,  to  my  certain  knowl- 
edge, in  doing  that  wrong.  One  of  them  is  Sir  Percival 
Glyde." 

"Indeed!" 

I  looked  attentively  to  see  if  she  flinched  at  the  sudden 
mention  of  tiiat  name.  Not  a  muscle  of  her  stirred — 
the  hard,  defiant,  implacable  stare  in  her  eyes  never  wa- 
vered for  an  instant. 

*'  You  may  wonder,"  I  went  on,  "  how  the  event  of 
your  daughter's  death  can  have  been  made  the  means  of 
inflicting  injury  on  another  person." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Catherick  ;  "  I  don't  wonder  at  all. 
This  appears  to  be  your  affair.  You  are  interested  in  my 
affairs.     I  am  not  interested  in  yours." 

"  You  may  ask,  then,"  I  persisted,  "  why  I  men- 
tion the  matter  in  your  presence." 

"Yes,  I  do  ask  that." 

"  I  mention  it  because  I  am  determined  to  bring  Sir 
Percival  Glyde  to  account  for  the  wickedness  he  has  com- 
mitted." 

"  What  have  I  to  do  with  your  determination?" 

"You  shall  hear.  There  are  certain  events  in  Sir 
Percival's  past  life  which  it  is  necessary  to  my  purpose  to 
be  fully  acquainted  with.  You  know  them,  and  for  that 
reason  I  come  io  you." 


476  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  What  events  do  yon  mean?*' 

*'  Events  that  occurred  at  Old  Welmiugham,  when  youi 
husband  was  parish-clerk  at  that  pUiee,  and  before  the  time 
when  your  daughter  was  born." 

I  had  reached  the  woman  at  last,  tnrough  the  barrier  of 
impenetrable  reserve  that  she  had  tried  to  set  up  between 
us.  I  saw  her  temper  smoldering  in  her  eyes,  as  plainly 
ds  1  saw  her  hands  grow  restless,  then  unclasp  themselves, 
and  begi'i  mechanically  smoothing  her  dress  over  her  knees. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  those  events?"  she  asked. 

"  All  that  Mrs.  Clements  could  tell  me,"  I  answered. 

There  was  a  momentary  flush  on  her  firm,  square  face, 
a  momentary  stillness  in  her  restless  hands,  which  seemed 
to  betoken  a  coming  outburst  of  anger  that  might  throw 
her  off  her  guard.  But,  no — she  mastered  the  rising  irri- 
tation, leaned  back  in  her  chair,  crossed  her  arms  on  her 
broad  bosom,  and,  with  a  smile  of  grim  sarcasm  on  her 
thick  lips,  looked  at  me  as  steadily  as  ever. 

"  Ah!  I  begin  to  understand  it  all  now,"  she  said,  her 
tamed  and  disciplined  anger  only  expressing  itself  in  the 
elaborate  mockery  of  her  tone  and  manner.  *'  You  have 
got  a  grudge  of  your  own  against  Sir  Percival  Glyde — and 
I  must  help  you  to  wreak  it.  I  must  tell  you  this,  that, 
and  the  other,  about  Sir  Percival  and  myself,  must  1? 
Yes,  indeed!  You  have  been  prying  into  my  private 
affairs.  You  think  you  have  found  a  lost  woman  to  deal 
with,  who  lives  here  on  sufferance,  and  who  will  do  any- 
thing you  ask,  for  fear  you  may  injure  her  in  the  opinions 
of  the  towns-people.  I  see  through  you  and  your  precious 
speculation — 1  do!  and  it  amuses  me.     Ha!  ha!" 

She  stopped  for  a  moment:  her  arms  tightened  over  her 
bosom,  and  she  laughed  to  herself — a  hard,  harsh,  angry 
laugh. 

"  You  don't  know  how  1  have  lived  in  this  place,  and 
what  I  have  done  in  this  place,  Mr.  What's-your-name," 
slie  went  on.  "  I'll  tell  yon,  before  I  ring  the  bell  and 
l)ave  you  shown  out.  I  came  here  a  wronged  woman.  I 
came  here  robbed  of  my  cliaiacter,  and  determined  to  claim 
it  back.  I've  been  years  and  years  about  it — and  I  have, 
claimed  it  back.  I  iiave  matched  the  respectable  people 
fairly  and  openly,  on  their  own  ground.  If  they  say  any- 
thing against  mi^  now.  they  must  say  it  in  secret:  they  can't 
say  it,  ihey  daren't  say  it,  openly.     J  stand  high  enough  iu 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WmXTE.  477 

this  town  to  be  out  of  your  reach.  The  clergyman  bows  to 
vie.  Aha!  you  didn't  bargain  for  that,  when  you  came 
here.  Go  to  the  church,  and  inquire  about  me — you  will 
find  Mrs.  Catherick  has  her  sitting,  like  the  rest  of  them, 
and  pays  the  rent  on  Lliu  day  it's  due.  Go  to  the  town-l.all. 
There's  a  petition  lying  there;  a  petition  of  the  respectable 
inhabitants  against  allowing  a  Circus  to  come  and  perform 
here  and  corrupt  our  morals:  yes!  our  morals.  I  signed 
that  petition  this  morning.  Go  to  the  book-seller's  shop. 
The  clergyman's  Wednesday  evening  Lectures  on  Justifi- 
cation by  Faith  are  published  there  by  subscription — I'm 
down  on  the  list.  The  doctor's  wife  only  put  a  shilling  in 
the  plate  at  our  last  charity  sermon — 1  put  half  a  crown. 
Mr.  Church-warden  Soward  held  the  plate,  and  bowed  to 
me.  Ten  years  ago  ho  told  Pigrum,  the  chemist,  I  ought  to 
be  whipped  out  of  the  town  at  the  cart's  tail.  Is  your 
mother  alive?  Has  she  got  a  better  Bible  on  her  table  than 
1  have  got  on  mine.^  Does  she  stand  better  with  her  trades- 
people than  I  do  wiih  mine?  Has  she  always  lived  within 
her  income?  1  have  always  lived  within  mine.  Ah!  there 
is  the  clergyman  coming  along  the  square.  Look,  Mr. 
What's-your-name— look,  if  you  please!" 

She  started  up,  with  the  activity  of  a  young  woman;  went 
to  the  window;  waited  till  the  clergyman  passed;  and  bowed 
to  him  solemnly.  The  clergyman  ceremoniously  raised  his 
hat,  and  walked  on.  Mrs.  Catherick  returned  to  her  chair, 
and  looked  at  me  with  a  grimmer  sarcasm  than  ever. 

"  There!"  she  said.  "  What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a 
woman  with  a  lost  character?  How  does  your  speculation 
look  now?" 

The  singular  manner  in  which  she  had  chosen  to  assert 
herself,  the  extraordinary  practical  vindication  of  her  jiosi- 
tion  in  the  town  which  she  had  just  offered,  had  so  per- 
plexed me  that  I  listened  to  her  in  silent  surprise.  I  was 
not  the  less  resolved,  however,  to  make  another  effort  to 
throw  her  off  her  guard.  If  the  woman's  fierce  temper 
once  got  beyond  her  control,  and  once  llamed  out  on  Jiie, 
she  might  yet  say  the  words  which  would  put  the  clew  in 
my  hands. 

"  How  does  your  speculation  look  now?"  she  repeated. 

"  Exactly  as  it  looked  when  I  first  came  in,"  I  answered. 
'■'  1  don't  doubt  the  p  jsition  you  have  gained  in  the  town, 
and  1  don't  wish  to  assail  it  even  if  I  could.     I  came  here 


478  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

because  Sir  Percival  Glyde  is,  to  my  certain  knowledge, 
your  enemy  as  well  as  mine.  If  1  have  a  grudge  against 
him,  you  have  a  grudge  against  him  too.  You  may  deny 
it,  if  you  like;  you  may  distrust  me  as  much  as  you  pI(3aso; 
you  may  be  as  angry  as  you  will — but,  of  all  the  women  in 
England,  you,  if  you  have  any  sense  of  injury,  are  the 
woman  who  ought  to  help  me  to  crush  that  man."' 

"  Crush  him  for  yourself,"  she  said;  "  then  come  back 
here,  and  see  what  I  say  to  you. " 

She  spoke  those  words  as  she  had  not  spoken  yet — quick- 
ly, fiercely,  vindictively.  I  had  stirred  in  its  lair  the  ser- 
pent-hatred of  years — but  only  for  a  moment.  Like  a 
lurking  reptile,  it  leaped  up  at  me — as  she  eagerly  bent  for- 
ward toward  the  place  in  which  I  was  sitting.  Like  a 
lurking  reptile,  it  dropped  out  of  sight  again — as  she  in- 
stantly resumed  her  former  position  in  the  chair. 

"  You  won't  trust  me?"  I  said. 

"No." 

"  You  are  afraid?" 

"  Do  I  look  as  if  1  was?" 

"  You  are  afraid  of  Sir  Percival, Glyde." 

"Ami?" 

Her  color  was  rising,  and  her  hands  were  at  work  again, 
smoothing  her  gown.  1  pressed  the  point  further  and 
further  home — 1  went  on,  without  allowing  her  a  moment 
of  delay. 

"  Sir  Percival  has  a  high  position  in  the  world,"  I  said; 
"  it  would  be  no  wonder  if  you  were  afraid  of  him.  Sir 
Percival  is  a  powerful  man — a  baronet — the  possessor  of  a 
fine  estate — the  descendant  of  a  great  family — " 

She  amazed  me  beyond  expression  by  suddenly  bursting 
out  laughing. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated,  in  tones  of  the  bitterest,  steadiest 
30ntempt.  "  A  baronet — the  possessor  of  a  fine  estate — 
the  descendant  of  a  great  family.  Yes,  indeed!  A  great 
family — especially  by  the  mother's  side." 

There  wns  no  time  to  reflect  on  the  words  that  had  just 
escaped  her;  there  was  only  time  to  feel  that  they  were 
well  worth  thinking  over  the  moment  I  left  the  house. 

"  1  am  not  here  to  dispute  with  yon  about  family  ques- 
tions," I  said.     "  1  know  nothing  of  Sir  Percival "s  moth- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  479 

"Asd  you  know  as  little  of  Sir  Percival  himself,"  she 
interposed,  sharply. 

"  I  advise  you  not  to  be  too  sure  of  that,"  I  rejoined. 
"  I  know  some  things  about  him — and  I  suspect  many 
more." 

"  What  do  you  suspect?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  don't  suspect.  I  don't  suspect  him 
of  being  Anne's  father." 

She  started  to  her  feet,  and  came  close  up  to  me  with  a 
look  of  fury. 

"  How  dare  you  talk  to  me  about  Anne's  father!  How 
dare  you  say  who  was  her  father,  or  who  wasn't!"  ehe 
broke  out,  her  face  quivering,  her  voice  trembling  with 
jpassion. 

"  The  secret  between  you  and  Sir  Percival  is  not  that 
secret,"  1  persisted.  "  The  mystery  whicli  darkens  Sir 
Percival's  life  was  not  born  with  your  daughter's  birth, 
''ind  has  not  died  with  your  daughter's  death." 

She  drew  back  a  step.  "  Go!"  she  said,  and  pointed 
sternly  to  the  door. 

"  There  was  no  thought  of  the  child  in  your  heart  or  in 
his,"  I  went  on,  determined  to  press  her  back  to  her  last 
defenses.  "  There  was  no  bond  of  guilty  love  between  you 
and  him,  when  you  held  those  stolen  meetings — when  your 
husband  found  you  whispering  together  under  the  vestry 
fef  the  church." 

Her  pointing  hand  instantly  dropped  to  her  side,  and  the 
deep  flush  of  anger  faded  from  her  face  while  1  spoke.  I 
saw  the  change  pass  over  her;  1  savv  that  hard,  firm,  fear- 
less, self-possessed  woman  quail  under  a  terror  which  her 
utmost  resolution  was  not  strong  enough  to  resist — when  I 
Baid  those  five  last  words,  "  the  vestry  of  the  church." 

For  a  minute,  or  more,  we  stood  looking  at  each  other  in 
silence.     I  spoke  first. 

"  Do  you  still  refuse  to  trust  me?"  1  asked. 

She  could  not  call  the  color  that  had  left  it  back  to  her 
face,  but  she  had  steadied  her  voice,  she  had  recovered  the 
defiant  self-possession  of  her  manner,  when  she  answer«d 
me. 

"  I  do  refuse,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  still  tell  me  to  go?" 

*'  Yes.     Go — and  never  come  back." 


480  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

I  walked  to  the  door,  waited  a  moment  before  I  opened 
it,  and  turned  round  to  look  at  her  again. 

"  I  may  have  news  to  bring  you  of  Sir  Percival  which 
you  don't  expect,"  I  said;  "  and,  in  that  case,  I  shall  come 
back." 

"  There  is  no  news  of  Sir  Percival  that  1  don't  expect, 
except — " 

She  stopped;  her  pale  face  darkened;  and  she  stole  back, 
with  a  quiet,  stealthy,  cat-like  step,  to  her  chair. 

"  Except  the  news  of  his  death,"  she  said,  sitting  down 
again,  with  the  mockery  of  a  smile  just  hovering  on  her 
cruel  lips,  and  the  furtive  light  of  hatred  lurking  deep  in 
her  steady  eyes.  As  1  opened  the  door  of  the  room  to  go 
out,  she  looked  round  at  me  quickly.  The  cruel  smile 
slowly  widened  her  lips — she  eyed  me  with  a  strange, 
stealthy  interest,  from  head  to  foot — an  unutterable  expec- 
tation showed  itself  wickedly  all  over  her  face.  Was  she 
speculating,  in  the  secrecy  of  her  own  heart,  on  my  youth 
and  strength,  on  the  force  of  my  sense  of  injury  and  the 
limits  of  my  self-control;  and  was  she  considering  the 
lengths  to  which  they  might  cal'ry  me,  if  Sir  Percival  and 
I  ever  chanced  to  meet?  The  bare  doubt  that  it  might  be 
so  drove  me  from  her  presence,  and  silenced  even  the  com- 
mon forms  of  farewell  on  my  lips.  Without  a  word  more, 
on  my  side  or  on  hers,  I  left  the  room. 

As  I  opened  the  outer  door,  1  saw  the  same  clergyman 
who  had  already  pi^ssed  the  house  once,  about  to  pass  it 
again,  on  his  way  back  through  the  square.  I  waited  on 
the  doorstep  to  let  him  go  by,  and  looked  round,  as  I  did 
80,  at  the  parlor  window. 

Mrs.  Catherick  had  heard  his  footsteps  approaching,  in 
the  silence  of  that  lonely  place;  and  she  was  on  her  feet  at 
the  window  again,  waiting  for  him.  Not  all  the  strength 
•f  all  the  terrible  passions  I  had  roused  in  that  woman's 
heart  could  loosen  her  desperate  hold  on  the  one  fragment 
of  social  consideration  u  hich  years  of  resolute  effort  had 
just  dragged  within  her  grasp.  There  she  was  again,  not 
a  minute  after  I  had  left  her,  placed  purposely  in  a  posi- 
tion which  made  it  a  matter  of  common  courtesy  on  the 
part  of  the  clergyman  to  bow  to  her  for  a  second  time, 
lie  raised  his  hat  once  more.  I  saw  the  hard,  ghastly  face 
behind  the  window  soften  and  light  up  witli  gratilied  pride; 
1  saw  the  head  with  the  grim  black  cap  bend  ceremoniously 


THE    WOMAN-     IN    WHITE.  481 

iu  return.     The  clergyman  had  bowed  to  her — and  in  my 
presence — twice  in  one  day! 


IX. 

T  LEFT  tliP  house  feeling  that  Mrs.  Catherick  had  helped 
me  a  step  i'orvvard,  in  sj)ite  of  herself.  Before  I  had 
reached  the  turning  which  led  out  of  the  square,  my  atten- 
tion was  suddenly  aroused  by  the  sound  of  a  closing  door 
behind  me. 

1  looked  rounrl,  and  saw  an  undersized  man  in  black  on 
the  doorstep  of  a  house  which,  as  well  as  T  could  judge^ 
stood  next  to  Mrs.  Catherick's  place  of  abode — next  to  it, 
on  the  side  nearest  to  me.  The  man  did  not  hesitate  a 
moment  about  the  direction  he  should  take.  He  advanced 
rapidly  toward  the  turning  at  which  1  had  stopped.  I  rec- 
ognized him  as  the  lawyer's  clerk  who  had  preceded  me  in 
my  visit  to  Blackwater  Park,  and  who  had  tried  to  pick  a 
quarrel  with  me,  when  I  asked  him  if  I  could  see  the  house. 

I  waited  where  I  was,  to  ascertain  whether  his  object  was 
to  come  to  close  quarters  and  speak,  on  this  occasion.  To 
my  surprise,  he  passed  on  rapidly,  without  saying  a  word, 
without  even  looking  up  in  my  face  as  he  went  by.  This 
was  such  a  complete  inversion  of  the  course  of  proceeding 
which  I  had  every  reason  to  expect  on  his  part,  (hat  my 
curiosity,  or  rather  my  suspicion,  was  aroused,  and  I  deter- 
mined, on  my  side,  to  keep  him  cautiously  in  view,  and  to 
discover  what  the  business  might  be  on  which  he  was  now 
employed.  Without  caring  whether  he  saw  me  or  not,  I 
walked  after  him.  He  never  looked  back,  and  he  led  me 
straight  through  the  streets  to  the  railway  station. 

The  train  was  on  the  point  of  starting,  and  two  or  three 
passengers  who  were  late  were  clustering  round  the  small 
opening  through  which  the  tickets  were  issued.  1  joined 
them,  and  distinctly  heard  the  lawyer's  clerk  demand  ;a 
ticket  for  the  Blackwater  station.  1  satisfied  myself  that 
he  had  actually  left  by  the  train,  before  1  came  away. 

There  was  only  one  interpretation  that  I  could  place  on 
what  1  had  just  seen  and  heard.  1  had  unquestionably 
observed  the  man  leaving  a  house  which  closely  adjoined 
Mrs.  Catherick's  lesidence.  He  had  been  probably  placed 
there,  by  Sir  Percival's  directions,  as  a  lodger,  in  anticipa- 
tion of  my  inquiries  leading  me,  sooner  or  later,  to  com- 

IQ 


i88  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITR. 

aiuiiioate  with  Mrs.  Catherick.  He  had  doubtless  seen  me 
go  iu  and  come  out,  and  lie  had  hurried  away  by  the  first 
train  to  make  his  report  at  Blackwater  Park — to  which 
place  Sir  Percival  would  naturally  betake  himself  (know- 
ing what  he  evidently  knew  of  my  movements),  in  order  to 
be  ready  on  the  spot,  if  I  returned  to  Hampshire.  Before 
many  days  were  over,  there  seemed  every  likelihood,  now, 
that  he  and  I  might  meet. 

Whatever  result  events  might  be  destined  to  produce,  I 
resolved  to  pursue  my  own  course,  straight  to  the  end  ia 
view,  without  stopping  or  turning  aside,  for  Sir  Percival 
or  for  any  one.  The  great  responsibility  which  weighed 
on  me  heavily  in  London — the  responsibility  of  so  guiding 
my  slightest  actions  as  to  prevent  them  from  leading  acci- 
dentally to  the  discovery  of  Laura's  place  of  refuge— was 
removed,  now  that  I  was  in  Hampshire.  I  could  go  and 
come  as  I  pleased,  at  Welmingham;  and  if  I  chanced  to 
fail  in  observing  any  necessary  precautions,  the  immediate 
results,  at  least,  would  affect  no  one  but  myself. 

When  1  left  the  station,  the  winter  eveiung  was  begin- 
ning to  close  in.  There  was  little  hope  of  continuing  my 
inquiries  after  dark  to  any  useful  purpose,  in  a  neighbor- 
hood that  was  strange  to  me.  Accordingly,  1  made  my 
way  to  the  nearest  hotel,  and  ordered  my  dinner  and  my 
bed.  This  done,  I  wrote  to  Marian,  to  tell  her  that  I  was 
safe  and  well,  and  that  1  had  fair  prospects  of  success.  I 
had  directed  her,  on  leaving  home,  to  address  the  first  let- 
ter she  wrote  to  me  (the  letter  1  exp'^cted  to  receive  the 
next  morning)  to  "  The  Post-office,  Welmingham;"  and  1 
now  begged  her  to  send  her  second  day's  letter  to  the  same 
address.  I  could  easily  receive  it,  by  writing  to  the  post- 
master, if  I  happened  to  be  away  from  the  town  when  it 
arrived. 

The  coffee-room  of  the  hotel,  as  it  grew  late  in  the  even- 
ing, became  a  perfect  solitude.  I  was  left  to  reflect  oa 
vvliat  I  had  accomplished  that  afternoon  as  uninterruptedly 
is  if  the  house  had  been  my  own.  Before  1  retired  to  jest, 
[  had  attentively  thought  over  my  extraordinary  interview 
with  Mrs.  Catherick,  from  beginning  to  end;  and  had 
verified,  at  my  leisure,  the  conclusions  which  I  had  hastily 
drawn  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  day. 

The  vestry  of  Old  Welmingham  church  was  the  starting- 
point  from  which  mv  mind  slowly  worked  its  way  back 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  483 

through   all   that   I  had   heard  Mrs.    Catherick  say,  and 
through  all  1  had  seen  Mrs.  Catherick  do. 

At  the  time  when  the  neighborhood  of  the  vestry  was 
first  referred  to  iu  my  presence  by  Mrs.  Clements,  1  had 
thought  it  the  strangesi  and  most  unaccountable  of  all 
places  for  Sir  Percival  to  select  for  a  clandestine  meeting 
with  the  clerk's  wife.  Influenced  by  this  impression,  and 
by  no  other,  I  had  mentioned  "  the  vestry  of  the  church," 
before  Mrs.  Catheri^jk,  on  pure  speculation — it  represented 
one  of  the  minor  peculiarities  of  the  story,  which  occurred 
to  me  while  1  was  speaking.  I  was  prepared  for  her  an- 
swering me  confusedly,  or  angrily;  but  the  blank  terror 
that  seized  her  when  J  said  the  words  took  me  completely 
by  surprise.  I  had,  long  before,  associated  Sir  Percival's 
Secret  with  the  concealment  of  a  serious  crime,  which  Mrs. 
Catherick  knew  of — but  I  had  gone  no  further  than  this. 
1*^0 w,  the  woman's  paroxysm  of  terror  associated  the  crime, 
either  directly  or  indirectly,  with  the  vestry,  and  convinced 
me  that  she  had  been  more  than  the  mere  witness  of  it — 
she  was  also  the  accomplice,  beyond  a  doubt. 

What  had  been  the  nature  of  the  crime?  Surely  there 
was  a  contemptible  side  to  it,  as  well  as  a  dangerous  side, 
or  Mrs.  Catherick  would  not  have  repeated  my  own  words, 
referring  to  Sir  Percival's  rank  and  power,  with  such 
marked  disdain  as  she  had  certainly  displayed.  It  was  a 
contemptible  crime,  then,  and  a  dangerous  crime;  and  she 
had  shared  in  it,  and  it  was  associated  with  the  vestry  of 
the  church. 

The  next  consideration  to  be  disposed  of  led  me  a  step 
further  from  this  point. 

Mrs.  Catherick's  undisguised  contempt  for  Sir  Percival 
plainly  extended  to  his  mother  as  well.  She  had  referred, 
with  the  bitterest  sarcasm,  to  the  great  family  he  had  de- 
scended from — "  especially  by  the  mother's  side."  What 
did  this  mean?  There  appeared  to  be  only  two  explana- 
tions of  it.  Either  his  mother's  birth  had  been  low,  or 
his  mother's  reputation  was  damaged  by  some  hidden  flaw 
with  which  Mrs.  Catherick  and  Sir  Percival  were  both  pri- 
vately  acquainted.  I  could  only  put  the  first  explanation 
to  the  test  by  looking  at  the  register  of  her  marriage,  and 
so  ascertaining  her  maiden  name  and  her  parentage,  as  a 
preliminary  to  further  inquiries. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  second  case  supposed  were  the 


i84  THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

true  one,  what  had  been  the  flaw  in  her  reputation?  Re- 
inenibeiing  the  account  which  Marian  had  given  me  of  Sir 
Percival's  father  and  mother,  atid  of  the  suspiciously  un- 
social, sec^luded  life  they  had  both  led,  I  now  asked  mystdf 
vvhethor  it  might  not  be  possible  I  hat  his  mother  had  never 
been  married  at  all.  Here,  again,  the  register  might,  by 
otTering  written  evidence  of  the  marriage,  prove  to  me,  at 
any  lace,  that  this  doubt  had  no  foundation  in  truth.  But 
where  was  the  register  to  be  found?  At  this  point  I  took 
up  the  conclusions  which  I  had  previously  formed;  and  the 
same  mental  process  which  had  discovered  the  locality  of 
tbe  concealed  crime,  now  lodged  the  register,  also,  iu  the 
vestry  of  Old  Welmingham  (ihurch. 

These  were  the  results  of  my  interview  with  Mrs.  Cafh- 
erick — these  were  the  various  considerations,  all  steadily 
converging  to  one  point,  which  decided  the  course  of  my 
proceedings  on  the  next  day. 

The  morning  was  cloudy  and  lowering,  but  no  rain  fell. 
I  left  my  bag  at  the  hotel,  to  wait  there  till  I  called  for  it, 
and,  after  inquiring  the  ua}^  set  forth  on  foot  for  Old 
Welmingham  church. 

It  ^vHs  a  walk  of  rather  more  than  two  miles,  the  ground 
rising  slowly  all  tliG  way. 

On  the  higbi'sL  point  sto(!d  the  church — an  ancient, 
weather-beaten  budjing,  with  heavy  buttresses  at  its  sides, 
and  a  clumsy  sqtiare  tower  in  front.  The  vestry,  at  the 
back,  was  built  out  from  the  church,  and  seemed  to  be  of 
the  same  age.  Round  the  building,  at  intervals,  appeared 
the  remains  of  the  village  which  Mrs.  Clements  had  de- 
scribed to  me  as  her  husband's  place  of  abode  in  former 
years,  and  which  the  principal  inhabitants  had  long  since 
deserted  for  the  now  town.  Some  of  the  empty  houses  had 
been  dismantled  to  their  outer  walls;  some  had  been  left  to 
decay  with  time;  and  some  were  still  inhabited  by  persons 
evidently  of  the  poorest  class.  It  was  a  dreary  scene — ani. 
yet,  in  the  v/orst  aspect  of  its  ruin,  not  sa  dreary  as  tlie 
modern  to.v;i  that  I  had-  just  left.  Here  there  was  the 
brown,  breezy  sweep  of  surrounding  fields  for  tbe  eye  to 
repose  on;  here  the  trees,  leafless  as  they  were,  still  varied 
the  monotony  of  the  prospect,  and  helped  the  mind  to  look 
forward  to  summer-time  and  shade. 

As   1   moved   away  from   the   back  of  the  church,  and 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  485 

passed  some  of  the  dismantled  cottages  in  search  of  a  per- 
son who  might  direct  me  to  (he  clerk,  I  saw  two  men 
saunter  out  after  me,  from  behind  a  vvalL  The  taller  of 
the  two — a  stout,  muscular  man,. in  the  dress  of  a  game- 
keeper— was  a  stranger  to  me.  The  other  was  one  of  tlie 
men  who  had  followed  me  in  London,  on  the  day  when  I 
Vft  Mr.  Kyrle's  oflice.  1  had  taken  particular  notice  of 
him  at  the  time:  and  1  felt  sure  that  I  was  not  mistaken 
in  identifying  the  fellow  on  this  occasion. 

Neither  he  nor  his  companion  attempted  to  speak  to 
me,  and  both  kept  themselves  at  a  respectful  distance; 
but  the  motive  of  their  presence  in  tbe  neighborhood  of 
the  church  was  plainly  apparent.  It  was  exactly  as  I  liad 
supposed — Sir  Percival  was  already  prepared  for  me.  My 
visit  to  Mrs.  Catherick  had  been  reported  to  him  the  even- 
ing before;  and  those  two  men  had  been  jolaced  on  the 
lookout,  near  the  church,  in  anticipation  of  my  appearance 
at  Old  Welmingham.  If  I  had  wanted  any  further  proof 
that  my  investigations  had  taken  the  right  direction  at 
last,  the  plan  now  adopted  for  watching  me  would  have 
supplied  it. 

I  walked  on,  away  from  the  church,  till  1  reached  one 
of  the  inhabited  houses,  with  a  patch  of  kitchen  garden 
attached  to  it,  on  which  a  laborer  was  at  work.  He 
directed  me  to  the  clerk's  abode — a  cottage,  at  some 
little  distance  off,  standing  by  itself,  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  forsaken  village.  The  clerk  was  in-doors,  and  was  just 
putting  on  his  great-coat.  He  was  a  cheerful,  familiar, 
loudly  talkative  old  man,  with  a  very  poor  opinion  (as  I 
soon  discovered)  of  the  place  in  which  he  lived,  and  a 
happy  sense  of  superiority  to  his  neighbors  in  virtue  of  the 
great  personal  distinction  of  having  once  been  in  London. 

"  It's  well  you  cp.me  so  early,  sir,"  said  the  old  man, 
when  I  had  mentioned  the  object  of  my  visit.  "  I 
should  have  been  away  in  ten  minutes  more.  Parish 
business,  sir — and  a  goodish  long  trot  before  it's  all  done, 
for  a  man  at  my  age.  But,  bless  you,  I'm  strong  on  my 
legs  still!  As  long  as  a  man  I'on't  give  at  his  legs,  there's 
a  deal  of  work  left  in  him.  Don't  you  think  so  yourself, 
sir?" 

He  took  his  keys  down  while  he  was  talking,  from  a 
hook  behind  the  fire-piaoe,  and  locked  his  cottage  djoor  be* 
hind  us. 


486  THE    WOMAN    117    WHITE. 

"  Nobody  at  home  to  keep  house  for  me,"  said  the  clerkj 
with  a  cheerful  sense  of  perfect  freedom  from  all  family 
incumbrances.  "  My  wife's  in  the  church-yard  there,  and 
my  children  are  all  married.  A  wretched  place  this,  isn't 
it,  sir?  But  the  parish  is  a  large  one — every  man 
couldn't  got  through  the  business  as  I  do.  It's  leai'ning 
does  it;  and  I've  done  my  share,  and  a  little  more.  I  can 
talk  the  Queen's  English — (God  bless  the  Queen!) — and 
that's  more  than  most  of  the  people  about  here  can  do. 
You're  from  London,  I  suppose,  sir.^  I've  been  in  Lon- 
don, a  matter  of  five-and-twenty  vear  ago.  What's  the 
news  there  now,  if  you  please?" 

Chattering  on  in  this  way,  he  led  me  back  to  the  vestry. 
1  looked  about,  to  see  if  the  two  spies  were  still  in  sight. 
They  were  not  visible  anywhere.  After  having  discovered 
my  application  to  the  clerk,  they  had  probably  concealed 
themselves  where  they  could,  watch  my  next  proceedings 
with  perfect  freedom. 

The  vestry  door  was  of  stout  old  oak,  studded  with  strong 
nails;  and  the  clerk  put  his  large,  heavy  key  into  the  lock 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  knew  that  he  had  a  difficulty 
to  encounter,  and  who  was  not  quite  certain  of  creditably 
conquering  it. 

"  I'm  obliged  to  bring  you  this  way,  sir,"  he  said,  "  be- 
cause the  door  from  the  vestry  to  the  church  is  bolted  on 
the  vestry  side.  We  might  have  got  in  through  the  church, 
otherwise.  This  a  perverse  lock,  if  there  ever  was  one  yet. 
It's  big  enough  for  a  prison  door;  it's  been  hampered  over 
and  over  again;  and  it  ought  to  be  changed  for  a  new  one. 
I've  mentioned  that  to  the  church-warden  fifty  times  over 
at  least;  he's  always  saying  'I'll  see  about  it' — and  he 
never  does  see.  Ah,  it's  a  sort  of  lost  corner,  this  place. 
Not  like  London — is  it,  sir?  Bless  you,  we  are  all  asleep 
here!      We  don't  march  with  the  times." 

After  much  twisting  and  turning  of  the  key,  the  heavy 
lock  yielded,  and  he  opened  the  door. 

The  vestry  was  larger  than  I  should  have  supposed  it  to 
be,  judging  from  the  outside  only.  It  was  a  dim,  moldy, 
melancholy  old  room,  with  a  low,  raftered  ceiling.  Round 
two  sides  of  it,  the  sides  nearest  to  the  interior  of  the 
church,  ran  heavy  wooden  presses,  worm-eaten  and  gaping 
vi'ith  age.  Hooked  to  the  inner  corner  of  one  of  these 
presses  hmig  several  surplices,  all  bidging  out  at  their  lower 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  487 

ends  in  an  irreverent-looking  bundle  of  limp  drapery.  Be- 
jovv  the  surplices,  on  the  tioor,  stood  three  pacldng-cases, 
with  the  lids  half  off,  half  on,  and  the  straw  profusely  burst- 
ing out  of  their  cracks  and  crevices  in  every  direction. 
Behind  them,  in  a  corner,  was  a  litter  of  dusty  papers; 
some  large  and  rolled  up,  like  architect's  plans;  some  loosely 
strung  together  on  tiles,  like  bills  or  letters.  The  room 
had  once  been  lighted  by  a  small  side  window;  but  this 
had  been  bricked  up,  and  a  lantern  sky-light  was  now 
substituted  for  it.  The  atmosphere  of  the  place  was  heavy 
and  moldy,  being  rendered  additionally  oppressive  by  the 
closing  of  the  door  which  led  into  the  church.  This  door 
also  was  composed  of  solid  oak,  and  was  bolted,  at  top  and 
bottom,  on  the  vestry  side. 

"  We  might  be  tidier,  mightn't  we,  sir?"  said  the  cheer- 
ful clerk.  "  But  when  you're  in  a  lost  corner  of  a  place 
like  this,  what  are  you  to  do?  Why,  look  here,  now — 
just  look  at  these  packing-cases.  There  they've  been  for 
a  year  or  more,  ready  to  go  down  to  London — there  they 
are,  littering  the  place — and  there  they'll  stop  as  long  as 
the  nails  hold  them  together.  I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,  as  1 
said  before,  this  is  not  London.  We  are  all  asleep  here. 
Bless  you,  we  don't  march  with  the  times!" 

"  \Vhat  is  there  in  the  packing-cases?"  I  asked. 

"  Bits  of  old  wood  carvings  from  the  pulpit,  and  pa!iels 
from  the  chancel,  and  images  from  the  organ-loft,"  said 
the  clerk.  "  Portraits  of  the  twelve  apostles  in  wood — and 
not  a  whole  nose  among  'em.  All  broken,  and  worm-eaten, 
and  crumbling  to  dust  at  the  edges — as  brittle  as  crockery, 
sir,  and  as  old  as  the  church,  if  not  older." 

"And  why  were  they  going  to  London?  To  be  re- 
paired?" 

"  That's  it,  sir.  To  be  repaired;  and  where  they  were 
past  repair,  to  be  copied  in  sound  wood.  But  bless  you, 
the  money  fell  short — and  there  they  are,  waiting  for  new 
subscriptions,  and  nobody  to  subscribe.  It  was  all  done, 
a  year  ago,  sir.  Six  gentlemen  dined  together  about  it  at 
the  hotel  in  the  new  town.  They  made  speeches,  and 
passed  resolutions,  and  put  their  names  down,  and  printed 
off  thousands  of  prospectuses.  Beautiful  prospectuses,  sir, 
all  flourished  over  with  Gothic  devices  in  red  ink,  saying  it 
was  a  disgrace  not  to  restore  llie  church  and  repair  the  fa- 
mous carvings,  and  so  oUr  There  are  the  prospectuses  that 


488  THK    WOMAN    IN    T^'HITE. 

couldn't  be  distributed,  and  the  architect's  plans  and  esti- 
mates, and  the  whole  correspondence,  which  set  everybody 
at  loggerheads  and  ended  in  a  dispute,  all  down  together 
in  that  corner  behind  the  packing-cases.  The  money  drib- 
bkd  in  a  little  at  first — but  vvlial  ran  you  expect  out  of  Lon- 
don? There  was  ju?t  enough,  you  kiiow,  to  pack  the  broken 
carvings,  and  get  the  estimates,  and  jmy  the  printer's  bill 
— and  after  that  there  wasn't  a  half-penny  left.  There  the 
things  are,  as  1  said  before.  We  have  nowhere  else  to  put 
them — nobody  in  the  new  town  cares  about  accommodating 
vs — we're  in  a  lost  corner — and  this  is  an  untidy  vestry — 
and  who's  to  help  it? — that's  what  I  want  to  know." 

My  anxiety  to  examine  the  register  did  not  dispose  me  to 
offer  much  e?icouragement  to  ihe  old  man's  talkativeness. 
1  agreed  with  him  that  nobody  could  help  the  untidiness  of 
the  vestry,  and  then  suggested  that  we  should  proceed  to 
our  business  without  more  d'Clay. 

"  Ay,  ay,  the  marriage  register,  to  be  sure,"  said  the 
clerk,  taking  a  little  bunch  of  keys  from  his  pocket.  "  How 
far  do  you  want  to  look  back,  sir?" 

Marian  had  informed  me  of  Sir  Percival's  age  at  the  time 
when  we  had  spoken  together  of  his  marriage  engagement 
with  Laura.  She  had  then  described  him  as  being  forty- 
five  years  old.  Calculating  back  from  this,  and  making 
due  allowance  for  the  year  that  had  passed  since  I  had 
gained  my  information,  1  found  that  he  must  have  been 
born  in  eighteen  hundred  and  four,  and  that  I  might  safely 
start  on  my  search  through  the  register  from  that  date. 

'*  I  want  to  begin  with  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and 
four,"  I  said. 

"  Which  way  after  that,  sir?"  asked  the  clerk.  "  For° 
ward  to  our  time,  or  backward  asvay  from  us?" 

"  Backward  from  eighteen  hundred  and  four." 

He  opened  the  door  of  one  of  the  presses — the  press  from 
the  side  ot  which  the  surplices  were  hanging — and  produced 
a  large  volume  bound  in  greasy  brown  leather.  1"  was 
struck  by  the  insecurity  of  the  place  in  which  the  register 
was  kept.  The  door  of  the  press  was  warped  and  cracked 
with  age;  and  the  lock  was  of  the  smallest  and  commonest 
kind.  I  could  have  forced  it  easily  with  the  walking-stick 
I  carried  in  my  hand. 

"  Is  that  considered  a  sufficiently  recure  place  for  the 
register?'^  1  inquired.    "  Surely,  a  book  of  such  importauuu 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  489 

as  this  ought  to  bo  protoctetl  bv  ■,  better  lock,  and  kept 
carefully  in  an  iron  sufe!" 

"  Well,  now,  that's  curious!"  suul  the  clerk,  shutting  up 
the  book  again,  just  after  he  had  opened  it,  and  smacking 
his  hand  cheerfully  on  the  cover.  "  Those  were  the  very 
words  my  old  master  was  always  saying  years  and  years 
ago,  when  I  was  a  lad.  '  Why  isn't  the  register  '  (meaning 
this  register  here  under  my  hand) — '  why  isn't  it  kept  in  an 
iron  safe?'  If  I've  heard  him  say  that  once,  I've  heard  him 
say  it  a  hundred  times.  He  was  the  solicitor  in  those  days, 
sir,  who  had  the  appointment  of  vestry-clerk  to  this  chiirch. 
A  fine,  hearty  old  gentleman — and  the  most  particular  man 
breathing.  As  long  as  he  lived  he  kept  a  copy  of  this  book 
in  his  office  at  Knowlesbury,  and  had  it  posted  up  regular, 
from  time  to  time,  to  correspond  with  the  fresh  entries 
here.  You  would  hardly  think  it,  but  he  had  his  own  ap- 
pointed days,  once  or  twice  in  every  quarter,  for  riding  over 
to  this  church  on  his  old  white  pony,  to  check  the  copy  by 
the  register  with  his  own  eyes  and  hands.  '  How  do  1 
know  '  (he  used  to  say) — '  how  do  I  know  that  the  registry 
in  the  vestry  may  not  be  stolen  or  destroyed?  Why  isn't 
it  kept  in  an  iron  safe?  Why  can't  1  make  other  people  as 
careful  as  I  am  myself?  Some  of  these  days  there  will  be 
an  accident  happen — and  when  the  register's  lost,  then  the 
parisli  will  find  out  the  value  of  my  copy.'  He  used  to 
take  his  pinch  of  snuff  after  that,  and  look  about  him  as 
bold  as  a  lord.  Ah!  the  like  of  him  for  doing  business  isn't 
easy  to  find  now.  You  may  go  to  London,  and  not  match 
him  even  there.  Which  year  did  you  say,  sir?  Eighteen 
hundred  and  what?" 

"  Eighteen  hundred  and  four,"  I  replied,  mentally  re- 
solving to  give  the  old  man  no  more  opportunities  of  talk- 
ing  until  my  examination  of  the  register  was  over. 

The  clerk  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  turned  over  the 
leafes  of  the  register,  carefully  wetting  his  finger  and 
thumb  at  every  third  page.  "  There  it  is,  sir,"  he  said, 
with  another  cheerful  smack  on  the  open  volume. 
"  There's  the  year  you  want." 

As  I  was  ignorant  of  the  month  in  which  Sir  Percival 
was  born,  I  began  my  backward  search  with  the  early  part 
of  the  year.  The  register-book  was  of  I  he  old-fashioned 
kind,  the  entries  beins;  all  niiulo  on  blank  pages,  in  m:inu- 
Bcript,  and  the  divisions  which  separated  them  being  indi- 


490  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

cated  by  ink  lines  drawn  across  the  page,  at  the  close  of 
each  entry. 

I  reached  the  beginriing  of  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and 
four,  withoutencouiitering  the  marriage;  and.  then  traveled 
back  through  De^^ember,  eighteen  hundred  and  three; 
through  November,  and  October;  through — 

No!  not  through  September  also.  Under  the  heading 
of  that  month  in  the  year,  I  found  the  marriage. 

I  looked  carefully  at  the  eutry^  It  was  at  the  bottom  of 
a  page,  and  was,  for  want  of  room,  compressed  into  a 
smaller  space  than  that  occupied  by  the  marriages  above. 
The  marriage  immediately  before  it  was  impressed  on  my 
attention  by  the  circumstances  of  the  bridegroom's  Christian 
name  being  the  same  as  my  own.  The  entry  immediately 
following  it  (on  the  top  of  the  next  page)  was  noticeable  in 
another  way,  from  the  large- space  it  occupied;  the  record, 
in  this  case,  registering  the  marriages  of  two  brothers 
at  the  same  time.  T'he  register  of  the  marriage  of  Sir 
Felix  Glyde  was  in  no  respect  remarkable,  except  for  the 
narrowness  of  the  space  into  which  it  was  compressed  at  the 
bottom  of  the  page.  The  information  about  his  wife  was 
the  usual  information  given  in  such  cases.  She  was  des- 
cribed as  "  Cecilia  Jane  Elster,  of  Park  View  Cottages, 
Knowleshury;  only  daughter  of  the  late  Patrick  Elster, 
Esq.,  formerly  of  Bath." 

I  noted  down  these  particulars  in  my  pocket-book,  feeling, 
as  1  did  so,  both  doubtful  and  disheartened  about  my  next 
proceedings.  The  Secret,  which  1  had  believed,  until  this 
moment,  to  be  within  my  grasp,  seemed  now  further  from 
my  reach  than  ever. 

What  suggestions  of  any  mystery  unexplained  had  arisen 
out  of  my  visit  to  the  vestry?  I  saw  no  suggestions  any- 
where. What  progress  had  I  made  toward  discovering  the 
suspected  stain  on  the  reputation  of  Sir  Percival's  mother? 
The  one  fact  I  had  ascertained  vindicated  her  reputation. 
Fresh  doubts,  fresh  difficulties,  fresh  delays,  began  to  open 
before  me  in  interminable  prospect.  What  was  I  to  do 
next?  The  one  immediate  resource  left  to  me  appeared  to 
be  this:  I  might  institute  inquiries  about  "  Miss  Elster,  of 
Kno'wlesbin-y,"  on  the  chance  of  advancing  toward  the 
fn:iin  object  of  my  investigation,  by  tirst  discovering  (he 
secret  of  Mrs.  Catherick's  contempt  for  Sir  Percival's 
mother. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  491 

**  Have  yon  found  what  you  wanted,  sir?"  said  the  clerk, 
as  1  closed  the  register-book. 

"Yes,"  1  replied;  "  but  1  have  some  inquiries  still  to 
make,  I  suppose  the  clergyman  who  officiated  here  in  the 
year  eighteen  hundred  and  three  is  no  longer  alive?" 

"  No,  no,  sir;  he  was  dead  three  or  four  years  before  1 
came  here — and  that  was  as  long  ago  as  the  year  twenty- 
seven.  I  got  this  place,  sir,"  persisted  my  talkative  old 
friend,  "  through  the  clerk  before  me  leaving  it.  They  say 
he  was  driven  out  of  house  and  home  by  his  wife— and  she's 
Uving  still,  down  in  the  new  town  there.  I  don't  know  the 
rights  of  the  story  myself;  all  1  know  is,  I  got  the  place. 
Mr.  Vf  ansborough  got  it  for  me — the  son  of  my  old  master 
that  1  was  telling  you  of.  He's  a  free,  pleasant  gentleman 
as  ever  lived;  rides  to  hounds,  keeps  his  pointers,  and 
all  that.  He's  vestry-clerk  here  now,  as  his  father  was 
before  him." 

"  Did  you  not  tell  me  your  former  master  lived  at 
Knowlesbury?"  I  asked,  calling  to  mind  the  long  story 
about  the  precise  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  with  which  ray 
talkative  friend  had  wearied  me  before  he  opened  the 
register-book. 

*'  Yes,  to  be  sure,  sir,"  replied  the  clerk.  "  Old  Mr. 
Wansborough  lived  at  Knowlesbury,  and  young  Mr.  Wans- 
borongh  lives  there  too." 

"  You  said  just  now  he  was  vestry-clerk,  like  his  father 
before  hitn.  1  am  not  quite  sure  that  1  know  what  a  ves- 
try-clerk is." 

"  Don't  you  indeed,  sir? — and  you  come  from  London 
too!  Every  parish  church,  you  know,  has  a  vestry-clerk 
and  a  parish-clerk.  The  parish-clerk  is  a  man  like  me  (ex- 
cept that  I've  got  a  deal  more  learning  than  most  of  them 
— though  I  don't  boast  of  it).  The  vestry-clerk  is  a  sort  of 
an  appointment  that  the  lawyers  get;  and  if  there's  any 
business  to  be  done  for  the  vestry,  why,  there  they  are  to 
do  it.  It's  just  the  same  in  London.  Every  parish 
church  there  has  got  its  vestry-clerk— and,  you  may  take 
my  word  for  it,  he's  sure  to  be  a  lawyer." 

"  Then,  young  Mr.  Wansborough  is  a  lawyer,  1  suppose?" 

"  Of  coarse  he  is,  sir!  A  lawyer  in  High  Street,  Knowles- 
bury— the  old  offices  that  his  father  had  before  him.  The 
number  of  times  I've  >  we[)t  those  offices  out,  and  seen  the 
old  gentleman  come  trotting  in  to  business  on  his  whit© 


492  THE    WOIIAK    IK    WHITE. 

pony,  looking  right  and  left  all  down  the  street,  and  nod- 
ding to  everybody!  Bless  you,  he  was  a  popular  character! 
— he'd  have  done  in  London!" 

"  How  far  is  it  to  Knovvlesbury  from  this  place?" 

"  A  long  stretch,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  with  that  exagger- 
ated idea  of  distances  and  that  vivid  perception  of  difficulties 
in  getting  from  place  to  place  which  is  peculiar  to  all 
country  people.     "  Nigh  on  five  mile,  1  can  tell  you!" 

It  was  still  early  in  the  forenoon.  There  was  plenty  of 
time  for  a  walk  to  Knowlesbury,  and  back  again  to  Wel- 
mingham;  and  there  was  no  person,  probably,  in  the  town 
who  was  fitter  to  assist  my  inquiries  about  the  character  and 
position  of  Sir  Percival's  mother,  before  her  marriage, 
than  the  local  solicitor.  Eesolving  to  go  at  once  to 
Knowlesbury  on  foot,  I  led  the  way  out  of  tlie  vestry. 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  as  f  slipped  my 
little  present  into  his  hand.  "  Are  you  really  going  to 
walk  all  the  way  to  Knowlesbury  and  back?  Well!  you're 
strong  on  your  legs,  too — and  what  a  blessing  that  is,  isn't 
it?  There's  the  road;  you  can't  miss  it.  I  wish  I  was 
going  your  way — it's  pleasant  to  meet  with  gentlemen 
from  London  in  a  lost  corner  like  this.  One  hears  the 
news.  Wish  you  good-morning,  sir — and  thank  you  kindly 
once  more." 

We  parted.  As  I  left  the  church  behind  me,  I  looked 
back — and  there  were  the  two  men  again,  on  the  road  be- 
low, with  a  third  in  their  company,  that  third  person  being 
the  short  man  in  black  whom  1  had  traced  to  the  railway 
the  evening  before. 

The  three  stood  talking  together  for  a  little  while — 
— then  separated.  The  man  in  black  went  away  by  himself 
toward  Welmingham;  the  other  two  remained  together, 
evidently  waiting  to  follow  me,  as  soon  as  I  walked  on. 

I  proceeded  on  my  way,  without  letting  the  fellows  see 
that  I  took  any  special  notice  of  them.  They  caused  me 
no  conscious  irritation  of  feeling  at  that  moment;  on  the 
contrary,  they  rather  revived  my  sinking  hopes.  In  the 
surprise  of  discovering  the  evidence  of  the  marriage,  I  had 
forgotten  the  inference  J  had  drawn,  on  first  perceiving  the 
men  In  the  neighborhood  of  the  vestry.  Their  reappear- 
antte  reminded  me  that  Sir  Percival  had  anticipated  my 
visit  to  Old  Welminghiim  church,  as  the  next  result  of  my 
interview  with  Mrs.  Catherick;  otherwise  he  would  never 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    "WHITE.  493 

have  placed  liis  spies  tliere  to  wait  for  me.  Smoothly  am] 
fairly  as  appraraiices  Ionised  in  the  vestry,  there  was  some- 
thiug  wrong  bonealli  thcni — there  was  sometliing  in  tin; 
register-book,  for  aught  1  knew,  that  I  had  not  discovered 
yet. 

X. 

Once  out  of  sight  of  the  church,  1  pressed  forward  briskly 
on  my  way  to  Kuowlesbury. 

The  road  was,  for  the  most  part,  straight  and  level. 
Whenever  I  looked  back  at  it,  I  saw  the  two  spies,  steadily 
following  me.  For  the  greater  part  of  the  way,  they  kept  at 
a  safe  distance  behind.  But  once  or  twice  they  quickened 
their  pace,  as  if  with  the  purpose  of  overtaking  me — then 
stopped — consulted  together — and  fell  back  again  to  their 
former  position.  They  had  some  special  object,  evidently, 
in  view;  and  they  seemed  to  Le  hesitating,  or  differing, 
about  the  best  means  of  accomplishing  it.  I  could  not  guess 
exactly  what  their  design  might  be,  but  1  felt  serious 
doubts  of  reaching  Knowlesbury  without  some  mischance 
happening  to  me  on  the  way.     Those  doubts  wore  realized. 

1  had  just  entered  on  a  lonely  part  of  the  road,  with  a 
sharp  turn  at  some  distance  ahead,  and  had  just  concluded 
(calculating  by  time)  that  I  must  be  getting  near  to  the 
town,  when  I  suddenly  heard  the  steps  of  the  men  close 
behind  me. 

Before  1  could  look  round,  one  of  them  (the  man  by 
whom  I  had  been  followed  in  London)  passed  rapidly  on  my 
left  side,  and  hustled  me  with  his  shoulder.  I  had  been 
more  irritated  by  the  manner  in  which  he  and  his  com- 
panion had  dogged  my  steps  all  the  way  from  Old  Weiming- 
ham  than  1  was  myself  aware  of;  and  I  unfortunately  pushed 
the  fellow  away  smartly  with  my  open  hand.  He  instantly 
shouted  fur  help.  His  companion,  tlie  tall  man  in  the 
gamekeeper's  clothes,  sprung  to  niv  riglit  side,  and  the 
next  moment  the  two  scoundrels  held  lue  pinioned  between 
them  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

The  conviction  that  a  trap  hail  been  laid  for  me,  and  the 
vexation  of  knowing  that  1  had  fallen  'into  it,  fortunately 
restrained  me  from  nniking  my  position  still  worse  by  au 
unavailing  struggle  with  two  men — one  of  whom  would  in 
all  probability  have  been  more  than  a  mutch  for  mc  suigie- 


4&4  tHE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

banded.  1  repressed  the  first  natural  movement  by  which 
I  had  attempted  to  shake  them  off,  and  looked  about  to 
see  if  there  was  any  person  near  to  whom  I  could  appeal. 

A  laborer  was  at  work  in  the  adjoining  field,  who  must 
have  witnessed  all  that  had  passed:  I  called  to  him  to  follow 
us  to  the  town.  He  shook  his  head  with  stolid  obstinacy, 
and  walked  away  in  the  direction  of  a  cottage  which  stood 
back  from  the  high-road.  At  the  same  time  the  men  who 
.'held  me  between  them  '-"clared  their  intention  of 
charging  me  with  an  assault.  I  was  cool  enough  and  wise 
enough,  now,  to  make  no  opposition.  "  Drop  your  hold 
of  my  arms,'^  I  said,  "  and  1  will  go  with  you  to  the 
town."  The  man  in  the  gamekeeper's  dress  roughly  re- 
fused. But  the  shorter  nuui  was  sharp  enough  to  look  to 
consequences,  and  not  to  let  his  companion  commit  himself 
by  unnecessary  violence.  He  made  a  sign  to  the  other, 
and  I  walked  on  between  them,  Tvith  my  arms  free. 

We  reached  the  turning  in  the  road;  and  there,  close  be- 
fore us,  were  the  subinbs  of  KnowJesbury.  One  of  the 
local  policemen  was  walking  akmg  the  path  by  the  road- 
side. The  men  at  once  appealed  to  him.  He  replied  that 
the  magistrate  wns  then  sitiir.g  at  the  town-hall,  and  recom- 
mended that  we  should  appear  before  him  immediately. 

We  went  on  to  the  town-hall.  The  clerk  made  out  a 
formal  summons;  and  the  charge  was  preferred  against 
me,  with  the  customary  exaggeration  and  the  customary  per- 
version of  the  truth,  on  sach  occasions.  The  magistrate 
(an  ill-tempered  man,  with  a  sour  enjoyment  in  the  exercise 
of  his  own  power)  inquired  if  any  one  on  or  near  the  road 
had  witnessed  the  assault;  and,  greatly  to  my  surprise,  the 
complaint  atlmitted  the  presence  of  the  laborer  in  the  field. 
I  was  enlightened,  however,  as  to  the  object  of  the  admis- 
sion, by  the  magistrate's  next  words.  He  remanded  me  at 
once  for  the  production  of  the  witness,  expressing,  at  the 
same  time,  his  willingness  to  take  bail  for  my  reappear- 
ance, if  I  could  produce  one  responsible  surety  to  offer  it. 
If  I  had  betiu  known  in  the  town,  he  would  have  liberated 
me  on  my  own  recognizances;  but,  as  I  was  a  total 
stranger,  it  was  necessary  that  I  should  find  responsible 
bail. 

The  whole  object  of  the  stratagem  was  now  disclosed  to 
me.  It  had  been  so  nuuuiged  as  Lo  make  a  remand  neees- 
sury  in  a  town  where  1  was  u  ]3t!riect  stranger,  and  winire  I 


THE    WOMAN'    IN     WHITE.  -195 

could  not  hope  to  get  my  liberty  on  bail.  The  remand 
merely  extended  over  tiiree  days,  until  the  next  sitting  of 
the  magistrate.  By  that  time,  while  1  was  in  confinement, 
Sir  Peruival  might  use  any  means  he  pleased  to  embarrass 
my  future  proceedings — perhaps  to  screen  himself  from 
detection  altogether — without  the  slightest  fear  of  any  hin- 
derauce  on  my  part.  At  the  end  of  the  three  days,  the 
charge  would,  no  doubt,  be  withdrawn,  and  the  attendance 
of  the  witness  would  be  perfectly  useless. 

My  indignation,  I  may  almost  say  my  despair,  at  this 
mischievous  check  to  all  further  progress — so  base  and 
trifling  in  itself,  and  yet  so  disheartening,  and  so  serious  in 
its  probable  results — quite  unfitted  me,  at  first,  to  reflect 
on  the  best  means  of  extricating  myself  from  the  dilemma 
in  which  I  now  stood.  1  had  the  folly  to  call  for  writing 
materials,  and  to  think  of  privately  communicating  my 
real  position  to  the  magistrate.  The  hopelessness  and  the 
imprudence  of  this  proceeding  failed  to  strike  me  before  1 
had  actually  written  the  opening  lines  of  the  letter.  It 
was  not  till  1  had  pushed  the  paper  away — not  till,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,  1  had  almost  allowed  the  vexation  of  my 
heli^less  position  to  conquer  me — that  a  course  of  action 
suddenly  occurred  to  my  mind.  Sir  Percival  had  probably 
not  anticipated,  and  which  might  set  me  free  again  in  a 
few  hours.  I  determi?ied  to  communicate  the  situation  in 
which  I  was  placed  to  Mr.  Dawson,  of  Oak  Lodge. 

1  had  visited  this  gentleman's  house,  it  may  be  remem- 
bered, at  the  time  of  my  first  inquiries  in  the  Black  water 
Park  neighborhood;  and  I  had  presented  to  him  a  letter  of 
introduction  from  Miss  Ilalcombe,  in  which  she  recom- 
mended me  to- his  friendly  attention  in  the  strongest  terms. 
I  now  wrote,  referring  to  this  letter,  and  to  what  I  had  pre- 
viously told  Mr.  Dawson  of  the  delicate  and  dangerous 
nature  of  my  inquiries.  I  had  not  revealed  to  him  the 
truth  about  Laura;  having  merely  described  my  erraud  as 
being  of  the  most  importance  to  private  family  interests 
with  which  Miss  Halcombe  was  concerned.  Using  the 
same  caution  still,  I  now  accounted  for  my  presence  at 
Knowlesbury  in  the  same  manner — and  I  put  it  to  the  doc- 
tor to  say  whether  the  trust  reposed  in  me  by  a  lady  whom 
he  well  knew,  and  the  hospitality  I  had  myself  received  in 
his  house,  justified  mc  or  not  in  asking  him  to  come  to 
my  assistance  in  a  place  where  I  was  quite  friendless. 


496-  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

1  obtained  permission  to  hire  a  messenger  to  drive  awaj' 
at  once  vvitli  my  letter,  in  a  conveyance  which  miglit  be 
used  to  bring  the  doctor  back  immediately.  Oak  Lodge 
was  on  the  Knowlesbury  side  of  Black  water.  The  man 
declared  he  could  drive  there  in  forty  minutes,  and  could 
bring  Mr.  Dawson  back  in  forty  more.  I  directed  him  to 
follow  the  doctor  wlierever  he  might  happen  to  be,  if  ha 
was  not  at  home— and  then  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  result 
with  all  the  patience  and  all  the  hope  that  1  could  summon 
to  help  me. 

It  was  not  quite  half  past  one  when  the  messenger  de- 
parted. Before  half  past  three  he  returned  and  brought 
the  doctor  with  him.  Mr.  Dawson's  kindness,  and  the 
delicacy  with  which  he  treated  his  prompt  assistance  quite 
as  a  matter  of  course,  almost  overpowered  me.  The  bail 
required  v/as  offered,  and  accepted  immediately.  Before 
four  o'clock  on  that  afternoon,  1  was  shaking  hands  warmly 
with  the  good  old  doctor — a  free  man  again — in  the  streets 
of  Knowlesbury. 

Mr.  Dawson  hospitably  invited  me  to  go  back  with  him 
to  Oak  Lodge,  and  take  up  my  quarters  there  for  the  night. 
I  could  only  reply  that  my  time  was  not  my  own;  and  1 
could  only  ask  him  to  let  me  pay  my  visit  in  a  few  days, 
when  I  might  repeat  my  thanks,  and  offer  to  him  all  the 
explanations  which  1  felt  to  be  only  his  due,  but  which  I 
was  not  then  in  a  position  to  make.  We  parted  with 
friendly  assurances  on  both  sides;  and  I  turned  my  steps 
at  once  to  Mr.  Wansborough's  office  in  the  High  Street. 

Time  was  now  of  the  last  importance. 

The  news  of  my  being  free  on  bail  would  reach  Sir  Perci- 
val,  to  an  absolute  certainty,  before  night.  If  the  next  few 
hours  did  not  put  me  in  a  position  to  justify  his  worst 
fears,  and  to  hold  him  helpless  at  my  mercy,  I  might  lose 
every  inch  of  the  ground  1  had  gained,  never  to  recover  it 
again.  The  unscrupulous  nature  of  the  man,  the  local 
iniluence  he  possessed,  the  desperate  peril  of  exposure  with 
which  my  blindfold  inquiries  threatened  him,  all  warned 
me  to  press  on  to  positive  discovery,  without  the  useless 
waste  of  a  single  minute.  I  had  found  time  to  think, 
while  I  was  waiting  for  Mr.  Dawson's  arrival;  and  I  hail 
well  employed  it.  Certain  portions  of  the  conversation  of 
the  talkative  old  clerk,  which  had  wea  led  me  at  the  time, 
now  recurred  to  my  memory  with  a  new  significance;  and 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE, 

a 


497 


»  suspicion  crossed  uiy  uiind  darkly,  which  had  not  occurred 
to  ni.  while  1  vvus  in  the  vestry.  On  my  way  to  Knowles- 
bii:y.  1  had  only  proposed  to  apply  to  Mr.  ^\  ansborough  for 
infoVmiilion  on  the  subject  of  Sir  Percival's  mother.  My 
objec:!,  now,  was  to  examine  the  duplicate  register  of  Old 
Wirlininghani  church. 

Mr.  Wausborough  was  in  his  office  when  1  inquired  for 
him. 

He  was  a  jovial,  red-faced,  easy-looking  man— more  like 
a  country  squire  than  a  lawyer-and  he  seemed  to  be  both 
surpHsed  and  amused  by  my  application.  He  had  heard 
of  his  father's  copy  of  ths  register,  but  had  not  even  seen 
it  himself.  It  had  never  been  inquired  after -and  it  was 
no  doubt  in  the  strong-room,  among  other  papers  that  had 
not  been  disturbed  since  his  father's  death.  It  was  a  pity 
(Mr.  Wansborough  said)  that  the  old  gentleman  was  not 
ahve  to  hear  his  precious  copy  asked  for  at  last.  He  would 
have  ridden  his  favorite  hobby  harder  than  ever  now.  How 
had  1  come  to  hear  of  the  copyi"  was  it  through  anybody  m 
the  town? 

I  parried  the  question  as  well  as  I  could.  It  was  impossi- 
ble at  this  stacreof  the  investigation,  to  be  too  cautious;  and 
it  was  just  as  well  not  to  let  Mr.  Wansborough  know  pre- 
maturely that  I  had  already  examined  the  original  register. 
1  described  myself,  therefore,  as  pursuing  a  family  inquiry, 
to  the  object  of  which  every  possible  saving  of  time  was  of 
great  importance.  1  was  anxious  to  send  certain  particu- 
lars to  London  by  that  day's  post;  and  one  look  at  the  du- 
plicate register  (paving,  of  course,  the  necessary  fees)  might 
supply  what  1  required,  and  save  me  a  further  journey  to 
Old  Welmingham.  I  added  that,  in  the  event  of  my  sub- 
sequently requiring  a  copy  of  the  original  register,  1  should 
make  application  to  Mr.  Wansborough's  office  to  furnish  me 
with  the  document. 

After  this  explanation,  no  objection  was  made  to  produc- 
ing the  copy.  A  clerk  was  sent  to  the  strong-room,  and 
after  some  delay,  returned  with  the  volume.  It  was  of  ex- 
actly the  same  size  as  the  volume  in  the  vestry:  the  only 
difference  being  that  the  copy  was  more  smartly  bound.  1 
took  it  with  me  to  an  unoccupied  desk.  My  hands  wcie 
trembling,  my  head  was  burning  hot;  I  felt  the  necessity 
pf  concealing  my  agitation  as  well  as  I  could  from  the  per- 


498  THE    WOMAN    IK'    WHITE. 

sons  about  me  in  the  room,  before  1  ventured  on  opening 
the  book. 

On  the  blank  page  at  the  beginning,  to  which  I  first 
turned,  were  traced  same  h'nes,  in  faded  ink.  They  con- 
tained these  words: 

"  Copy  of  the  Marriage  Register  of  Welminghain  Parish 
Church.  Executed  under  my  orders;  and  afterward  com- 
pared, entry  by  entry,  with  tlie  original,  by  myself.  (Signed) 
Robert  Wansboroiigli,  vestry-clerk. "  Below  this  note  thcie 
was  a  line  added,  in  another  handivriting,  as  follows:  "  Ex- 
tending from  the  first  of  January,  1800,  to  the  thirtieth  of 
June,  1815." 

1  turned  to  the  month  of  September,  eighteen  hundred 
and  three.  I  found  the  marriage  of  the  man  whose  Chris- 
tian name  was  the  same  as  my  own.  I  found  the  double 
register  of  the  marriages  of  the  two  brothers.  And  between 
these  entries,  at  the  bottom  of  the  page — ? 

^Nothing!  Not  a  vestige  of  the  entry  which  recorded  the 
marriage  of  Sir  Felix  Glyde  and  Cecilia  Jane  Elster,  in  the 
register  of  the  church! 

My  heart  gave  a  great  bound,  and  throbbed  as  if  it  would 
Btifie  me.  1  looked  again — I  was  afraid  to  believe  the  evi- 
dence of  my  own  eyes.  No!  not  a  doubt.  The  marriage 
was  not  there.  The  entries  on  the  copy  occupied  exactly 
the  same  places  on  the  page  as  the  entries  in  the  original. 
The  last  entry  on  one  page  recorded  the  marriage  of  the 
man  with  my  Christian  name.  Below  it  there  was  a  blank 
space — a  space  evidently  left  because  it  was  too  narrow  to 
contain  the  entry  of  the  mar;iages  of  the  two  brothers, 
which  in  the  copy,  as  in  the  original,  occupied  the  top  of 
the  next  page.  That  space  told  the  whole  story!  There  it 
must  have  remained,  in  the  church  register,  from  eighteen 
hundred  and  three  (when  the  marriages  had  been  solemn- 
ized and  the  copy  had  been  made)  to  eighteen  hundred  and 
twenty-seven,  when  Sir  Percival  appeared  at  Old  Welming- 
ham.  Here  at  Knowlesbury,  was  the  chance  of  committing 
the  forgery,  shown  to  me  in  the  copy— and  there,  at  Old 
Welmingham,  was  the  forgery  committed,  in  the  register 
of  the  church. 

My  head  turned  giddy;  I  held  by  tne  desk  to  keep  myself 
from  falling.  Of  all  the  suspicions  that  had  struck  me  in 
relation  to  that  desperate  man,  not  one  had  been  near  the 


THE    WOMAN    iN    WHITE.  49^ 

truf.h.  The  idea  that  he  was  not  Sir  Percival  Clyde  at  all, 
that  he  had  no  more  claim  to  the  biiroueLcy  and  to  Blauk- 
water  Park  than  the  poorest  laborer  who  worked  on  the 
estate,  hud  never  once  occurred  to  my  miiul.  At  one  time  I 
had  thought  he  might  be  Anne  Calherii;k's  father;  at  an- 
other time  I  thought  he  might  hiive  been  Anne  Cathorick's 
husband — the  offense  of  which  he  was  really  guilty  had 
been,  from  the  first  to  last,  beyond  the  widest  reach  ef  my 
Imagination. 

The  paltry  means  by  which  the  fraud  had  been  effected, 
the  magnitude  and  daring  of  the  crime  that  it  represented, 
the  horror  of  the  consequences  involved  in  its  discovery, 
overwhelmed  me.  Who  could  vi^onder  now  at  the  brute 
restlessness  of  the  wretch's  life;  at  his  desperate  alterna- 
tions between  abject  duplicity  and  reckless  violence;  at  the 
madness  of  guilty  distrust  which  had  made  him  imprison 
A)ine  Catherick  in  the  Asylum,  and  had  given  him  over 
to  the  vile  conspiracy  against  his  wife,  on  the  bare  suspicion 
that  the  one  and  the  other  knew  his  terrible  secret?  The 
disclosure  of  that  secret  might,  in  past  years,  have  hanged 
him — might  now  transport  him  for  life.  The  disclosure 
of  that  secret,  even  if  the  suiferers  by  his  deception  spared 
him  the  penalties  of  the  law,  would  deprive  him,  at  one 
blow,  of  the  name,  the  rank,  the  estate,  the  whole  social 
existence  that  he  had  usurped.  This  was  the  Secret,  and 
it  was  mine!  A  word  from  me,  and  house,  lands,  baron- 
etcy, were  gone  from  him  forever — a  word  from  me,  and  he 
was  driven  out  into  the  world,  a  nameless,  penniless, 
friendless  outcast.  The  man's  whole  future  hung  on  my 
lips — and  he  knew  it  by  this  time  as  certainly  as  1  did! 

That  last  thought  steadied  me.  Interests  far  more  pre- 
cious than  my  own  depended  on  the  caution  which  must  now 
guide  my  slightest  actions.  There  was  no  possible  treach- 
ery which  Sir  Percival  might  not  attempt  against  me.  la 
the  danger  and  desperation  of  his  position,  he  would  be  stag- 
gered by  no  risks,  he  would  recoil  at  no  crime — he  would, 
literally,  hesitate  at  nothing  to  save  himself. 

1  considered  for  a  minute.  My  lirst  necessity  was  to  se- 
cure positive  evidence  in  writing  of  the  discovery  tiiat  I  had 
just  made,  and,  in  the  event  of  any  personal  misadventure 
happening  to  me,  to  place  that  evidence  beyond  Sir  Perci- 
val's  reach.  The  copy  of  the  register  way  sure  to  be  safe  in 
Mr.  Wansborough's  strong-room.     But  the  posiUi^u  of  the 


500  THE    WOMAN    TX    WHITE. 

original  in  the  viv-^try,  v;vj},  as  1  had  seen  with  my  own 
eyes,  anything  but.  secure. 

In  this  (nnei'grney,  I  resolved  to  return  to  the  church,  to 
apply  again  to  the  clerk,  anil  to  take  the  necessary  extract 
from  the  register,  before  I  sle[',t  that  night.  I  was  not 
then  aware  that  a  legally  certified  copy  was  necessary,  and 
that  no  document  merely  drawn  out  by  myself  could  claim 
the  proper  importance  as  a  proof.  I  was  not  aware  of  this; 
and  my  determination  to  keep  my  present  proceedings  a 
secret  prevented  me  from  asking  any  questions  which 
might  have  procured  the  necessary  information.  My  cue 
anxiety  was  the  anxiety  to  get  back  to  Old  Welmingham. 
]  made  the  best  excuses  1  could  for  the  discomposure  in  my 
face  and  manner,  which  Mr.  Wansborough  had  already 
noticed;  laid  the  necessary  fee  on  his  table;  aiianged  that 
I  should  write  to  him  in  a  day  or  two;  and  K  ft  the  office, 
with  my  head  in  a  whirl,  and  my  blood  thic^b'  i'"^  Liirough 
my  veins  at  fever  heat. 

It  was  just  getting  dark.  The  idea  occurred  to  me  that  I 
might  be  followed  again,  ajid  attacked  on  the  high-road. 

My  walking-stick  was  a  light  o!ie,  of  little  or  no  use  for 
the  purposes  of  defense.  I  stopped,  before  leaving  Knowles- 
bury,  and  bought  a  stout  country  cudgel,  short,  and  heavy 
at  tiie  head.  With  this  homely  weapon,  if  any  one  man  tried 
to  stop  me,  I  was  a  matih  for  him.  If  more  than  one  at- 
tacked me,  I  could  trust  to  my  heels.  In  my  school-days  I 
had  been  a  noted  runner — and  1  had  not  wanted  for  prac- 
tice since,  in  the  later  time  of  my  experience  in  Central 
America. 

1  started  from  the  town  at  a  brisk  pace,  and  kept  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

A  small,  misty  rain  was  falling;  and  it  was  impossible;, 
for  the  first  half  of  the  way,  to  make  sure  whether  I  was 
followed  or  not.  But  at  tlie  last  half  of  my  journey,  when 
I  supposed  myself  to  be  about  two  miles  from  the  church, 
I  saw  a  man  run  by  me  in  the  rain,  and  then  heard  the 
gate  of  a  field  by  the  road-side  shut  to  sharply.  I  ke])t 
straight  on,  with  aiy  cudgel  ready  in  my  hand,  my  ears  on 
the  alert,  and  my  eyes  straining  to  see  through  the  mist 
and  darkness.  Before  I  had  advanced  a  hundred  yards, 
there  was  a  rustling  in  the  hedge  on  my  right,  and  three 
men  sprung  out  into  the  road. 

I  drew  a-'-ide  on  the  instant  to  the  foot-path.     The  two 


TH'-     V.-OVATT     T>T     WIFITK.  601 

foremost  men  were  carried  beyond  me  l)efo:e  ihcy  could 
check  theuiseives.  The  thu'd  was  as  quick  as  lightning.  He 
stopped — half  turned — and  struck  at  me  wiih  his  stick. 
The  blow  was  aimed  at  hazard,  and  was  not  a  severe  one. 
It  fell  on  my  left  shoulder.  I  returned  it  heavily  on  his 
head.  He  staggered  back  and  jostled  his  two  companions 
just  as  they  were  both  rushing  at  me.  This  cn-cumstance 
gave  me  a  moment's  start.  I  slipped  by  them,  and  took 
Lo  the  middle  of  the  road  again  at  the  top  of  my  speed. 

The  two  unhurt  men  pursued  me.  They  were  both  good 
runners;  the  road  was  smooth  and  level:  and  for  the  first 
five  minutes  or  more  I  was  con.-cions  that  1  did  not  gain 
on  them.  It  was  perilous  work  lo  run  for  long  in  the  dark- 
ness. I  could  barely  see  the  dim  black  line  of  the  hedges  on 
either  side;  and  any  chance  obstacle  in  the  road  would 
have  thrown  me  down  to  a  ccriainiy.  Ere  long  I  felt  the 
ground  changing:  it  descended  from  the  level  at  a  turn, 
and  then  rose  again  beyond.  Down  the  hill  the  men  rather 
gained  on  me;  but  up  hill  I  began  to  distance  them.  The 
rapid,  regular  thump  of  their  feet  grew  fainter  on  my  ear; 
and  I  calculated  by  the  sound  that  I  was  far  enough  in  ad- 
vance to  take  to  the  fields,  with  a  good  chance  of  their 
passing  me  in  the  darkness.  Diverging  to  the  foot-path, 
I  made  for  the  first  break  that  I  could  guess  at,  rather  than 
see,  in  the  hedge.  It  proved  to  be  a  closed  gate.  I  vaulted 
over,  and  finding  myself  in  a  field,  kept  across  it  steadily, 
with  my  back  to  the  road.  I  heard  the  men  pass  the  gate, 
still  running — then,  in  a  minute  more,  heard  one  of  them 
call  to  the  other  to  come  back.  It  was  no  matter  what 
they  did  now;  I  was  out  of  their  sight,  and  out  of  their 
heai'ing,  I  kept  straight  across  the  field,  and,  when  I  had 
reached  the  further  extremity  of  it,  waited  there  for  a  min- 
ute to  recover  my  breath. 

It  was  impossible  to  venture  back  to  the  road;  but  1  was 
determined,  nevertheless,  to  get  to  Old  Welmingham  that 
evening. 

Neither  moon  nor  stars  appeared  to  guide  me.  I  only 
knew  that  I  had  kept  the  wind  and  rain  at  my  back  on 
leaving  Knowlesbury,  and  if  1  now  kept  them  at  my  back 
still.  I  might  at  least  be  certain  of  not  advancing  altogether 
in  the  wrong  direction. 

Proceeding  on  Ibis  [Han.  I  crossed  the  country —meeting 
with  no  worse  obstacles  ihan  hedg;-s,  ditches,  and  thickets. 


502  THK     WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

whiP.h  every  now  and  thi'ii  obliged  ine  to  alter  my  course 
for  £1  little  while — until  1  found  myself  on  a  hill-side,  with 
the  ground  sloping  away  steeply  before  me.  I  descended 
to  the  bottom  of  the  hollow,  squi-ezed  my  way  through  a 
hedge,  and  got  out  into  a  lane.  Having  turned  to  the 
rigiit  on  leaving  the  road,  I  now  turned  to  the  left,  on  the 
chance  of  regaining  the  line  from  which  I  had  wandered. 
After  following  the  muddy  windings  of  th^i  lane  for  ten  min- 
utes or  more,  1  saw  a  cottage  with  a  light  in  one  of  the 
windows.  The  garden  gate  was  open  to  the  lane,  and  1 
went  in  at  once  to  inquire  my  way. 

Before  1  could  knock  at  the  do;  r  it  was  suddenly  opened, 
and  a  man  came  running  out  with  a  lighted  lantern  in  his 
hand.  He  stopped  and  held  it  up  at  the  sight  of  me.  We 
both  started  as  we  saw  each  oiher,  My  wanderings  had 
led  me  round  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  and  had  brought 
me  out  at  the  lower  end  of  it.  I  was  back  at  Old  Welming- 
ham;  and  the  man  with  the  lantern  was  no  other  than  my 
acquaintance  of  the  morning,  the  parish  clerk. 

His  manner  appeared  to  have  altered  strangely  in  the  in- 
terval since  I  had  last  seen  him.  He  looked  suspicious  and 
confused;  his  ruddy  cheeks  were  deeply  flushed;  and  his 
first  words,  when  he  spoke,  were  quite  unintelligible  to  me. 

"  Where  are  the  keys?"  he  asked.  '*  Have  you  taken 
th'.m?" 

*'  What  keys?"  I  repeated.  "  I  have  this  moment  cams 
from  Knowlesbury.     What  keys  do  you  mean?" 

"  The  keys  of  the  vestry.  Lord  save  us  and  help  us! 
what  shall  I  do?  The  keys  are  gone!  Do  you  hear?"  cried 
the  old  man,  shaking  the  lantern  at  me  in  his  agitation j 
"  the  keys  are  gone!" 

"  How?    When?     Who  can  have  taken  them?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  tne  clerk,  staring  about  him  wildly 
in  the  darkness.  "  I've  only  just  got  back.  1  told  you, 
that  I  had  a  long  day's  work  Ihis  morning — I  locked  the 
door,  and  shut  the  window  down — it's  open  now,  the  win- 
dow's open.  Look!  somebody  has  got  in  there  and  taken 
the  keys." 

He  turned  to  the  casement  window  to  show  me  that  it 
was  wide  open.  The  door  of  the  lantern  came  loose  from 
its  fastening  as  he  swayed  it  round,  and  the  wind  blew  thj 
candlti  out  instantly. 


TfiE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  603 

"  (ret  another  light,"  1  said,  "  and  let  us  both  go  to  the 
vestry  together.     Quick!  quick!" 

1  hurried  hini  into  the  house.  The  treachery  that  1  had 
every  reason  to  expect,  the  treacliery  thaf,  might  deprive 
me  of  every  advantage  1  had  ^{ained,  svas  at  that  moment, 
perhaps,  in  process  of  accomplishment.  My  impatience  to 
reach  the  church  was  so  great,  that  I  could  not  remain  in- 
active in  the  cottage  while  the  clerk  lighted  the  lantern 
again.     I  walked  out,  down  the  garden  path,  into  the  lane. 

Before  1  had  advanced  ten  paces,  a  man  approached  me 
from  the  direction  leading  to  the  church.  He  spoke  re- 
spectfully as  we  met.  I  could  not  see  his  face;  but,  judg- 
ing by  his  voice  only,  he  was  a  perfect  stranger  to  me. 

"  J  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Percival — "  he  began. 

I  stopped  him  before  he  could  say  more. 

"  The  darkness  misleads  you,"  I  said.  "  I  am  not  Sir 
Percival." 

The  man  drew  back  directly. 

"  I  thought  it  was  my  master,"  he  muttered,  in  a  con- 
fused, doubtful  way. 

"  You  expected  to  meet  your  master  here?" 

"  I  was  told  to  wait  in  the  lane." 

With  that  answer  he  retraced  his  steps.  1  looked  back 
at  the  cottage,  and  saw  the  clerk  coming  out,  with  the  lan- 
tern lighted  once  more.  I  took  the  old  man's  arm  to  help 
him  on  the  more  quickly.  We  hastened  long  the  lane,  and 
passed  the  person  who  had  accosted  me.  As  well  as  I 
could  see  by  the  light  of  the  lantern,  he  was  a  servant  out 
of  livery. 

"  Who's  that?"  whispered  the  clerk.  "  Does  he  know 
anything  about  the  keys?" 

"  We  won't  wait  to  ask  him,"  I  replied.  "  We  will  go 
on  to  the  vestry  first." 

The  church  was  not  visible,  even  by  day-time,  until  the 
end  of  the  lane  was  reached.  As  we  mounted  the  rising 
ground  which  led  to  the  builditig  from  that  point,  one  of 
the  village  children — a  boy — came  close  up  to  us,  attracted 
by  the  light  we  carried,  and  recognized  the  clerk. 

"  I  say,  measter,"  said  the  boy,  pulling  officiously  at  the 
clerk's  coat,  "  there  be  suuimun  up  yander  in  the  church. 
1  heerd  un  lock  the  door  on  hisself — 1  heerd  un  strike  a 
loight  wi'  a  match." 

The  clerk  trembled,  and  leaned  against  me  heavily. 


504  THE    WO>rAN    IN    WHITE. 

"Come!  come!"  I  said,  encouragingly.  "We  are  not 
too  late.  We  will  catcii  the  man,  whoever  he  is.  Keep 
the  lantern,  and  follow  me  as  fast  as  you  can. " 

I  mounted  the  hill  rapidly.  The  dark  mass  of  the 
church-tower  was  the  first  object  I  discerned  dimly  against 
the  night  sky.  As  I  turned  aside  to  get  round  to  the 
vestry,  1  heard  heavy  footsteps  close  to  me.  The  servant 
had  ascended  to  the  church  after  us.  "1  don't  mean  any 
harm,"  he  said,  when  1  turned  round  on  him;  "  I'm  only 
looking  for  my  master."  The  tones  in  which  he  spoke  be- 
trayed unmistakable  fear.  I  took  no  notice  of  him,  and 
went  on. 

The  instant  I  turned  the  corner  and  came  in  view  of  the 
vestry,  I  saw  the  lantern  sky-light  on  the  roof  brilliantly 
lighted  up  from  within.  It  shone  out  with  dazzling  bright- 
ness against  the  murky,  starless  sk}'. 

I  hurried  through  the  church-yard  to  the  door. 

As  I  got  near,  there  was  a  strange  smell  stealing  out  on 
the  damp  night  aii'.  I  heard  a  snapping  noise  inside — I 
saw  the  light  above  grow  brighter  and  brighter — a  pane  of 
the  glass  cracked — 1  ran  to  the  door,  and  put  my  hand  on 
it.     The  vestry  was  on  fire! 

Before  I  could  move,  before  I  could  draw  my  breath 
after  that  discovery,  I  was  horror-struck  by  a  heavy  thump 
against  the  door  from  the  inside.  I  heard  the  key  worked 
violently  in  the  lock — I  heard  a  man's  voice  behind  the 
door,  raised  to  a  dreadful  shrillness,  screaming  for  help. 

The  servant,  who  harl  followed  me,  staggered  back  shud- 
dering, and  dropped  to  his  knees.  "Oh,  my  God!"  ho 
said;  "  it's  Sir  Percival!" 

As  the  words  passed  his  lips,  the  clerk  joined  us,  and  at 
the  same  moment  there  was  another,  and  a  last,  grating 
turn  of  the  key  in  the  lock. 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul!"  said  the  old  man. 
"  He  is  doomed  and  dead.     He  lias  hampered  the  lock." 

I  rushed  to  the  door.  The  one  absorbing  purpose  that 
had  filled  all  my  thoughts,  that  had  controlled  all  my  ac- 
tions, for  weeks  and  weeks  past,  vanished  in  an  instant  from 
my  mind.  All  remembrance  of  the  heartless  injury  the 
man's  crimes  had  iutlicted;  of  the  love,  the  innocence,  the 
happiness  he  had  pitilessly  laid  waste;  of  the  oath  1  had 
sworn  in  my  own  heart  to  summon  him  to  the  terrible 
reckouiug  that  he  deserved — passed  from  my  memory  like 


THR    WOMAK    IN     WHITE.  505 

a  dream,  1  remombered  nothing  but  iho  horror  of  his  sit- 
uation. 1  felt  nothing  but  the  natural  human  impulse  to 
save  him  from  a  frightful  death. 

"  Try  the  other  door!"  I  shouted.  "  Try  the  door  into 
the  church!  The  lock's  hampered.  You're  a  dead  man 
Tf  you  waste  another  moment  on  it!" 

There  had  been  no  renewed  cry  for  help  when  the  key 
was  turned  for  the  last  time.  There  was  no  sound  now, 
of  any  kind,  to  give  token  that  lie  was  still  alive.  1  heard 
:ioLhing  but  the  quickening  crackle  of  the  flames,  and  the 
bluirp  snap  of  the  glass  in  the  sky-light  above. 

I  looked  round  at  my  two  companions.  The  servant  had 
risen  to  his  feet:  he  had  taken  the  lantern,  and  was  hold- 
ing it  up  vacantly  at  the  door.  Terror  seemed  to  have 
struck  him  with  downright  idiocy— he  waited  at  my  heels, 
he  followed  me  about  when  1  moved,  like  a  dog.  The 
clerk  sat  crouched  up  on  one  of  the  tombstones,  shivering, 
and  moaning  to  himself.  The  one  moment  in  which  1 
looked  at  them  was  enough  to  show  nie  that  they  were  both 
helpless. 

Hardly  knowing  what  I  did,  acting  desperately  on  the 
^rst  impulse  that  occurred  to  me,  I  seized  the  servant  and 
pushed  him  against  the  vestry  wall.  "  Stoop!"  1  said, 
"  and  hold  by  the  stones,  I  am  going  to  climb  over  you 
to  the  roof — I  am  going  to  break  the  sky-light,  and  give 
him  some  air!" 

The  man  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  but  he  held  firm. 
I  got  on  his  back,  with  my  cudgel  in  my  mouth;  seized  the 
parapet  with  botli  hands;  and  was  instantly  on  the  roof. 
In  the  frantic  hurry  and  agitation  of  the  moment,  it  never 
struck  me  that  I  might  let  out  the  flame  instead  of  letting 
in  the  air.  I  struck  at  the  sky-light,  and  battered  in  the 
cracked,  loosened  glass  at  a  blow.  The  fire  leaped  out  like 
a  wild  beast  from  its  lair.  If  the  wind  had  not  chanced,' 
in  the  position  1  occupied,  to  set  it  away  from  me,  my  ex- 
ei  lions  might  have  ended  then  and  there.  1  crouched  on 
the  roof  as  the  smoke  poured  out  above  me  with  the  flame. 
The  gleams  and  flashes  of  the  light  showed  me  the  servant's 
face  staring  up  vacantly  u;ider  t!ie  wall;  the  cierk  risen  to 
his  feet  on  the  tombstone,  wringing  his  hands  in  despair; 
and  the  scanty  population  of  the  viUage,  haggard  men  and 
terrified  women,  clustered  beyond  in  ihn  ehtirch-yard — all 
appearing  and  disappearing,   in  the  red  of   the  dreadful 


506  THE    WOMAN     IN    WHITE. 

glare,  in  the  black  of  the  choking  smoke.  And  the  man 
buneath  my  feet! — the  man,  suffocating,  burning,  dying 
so  near  us  all,  so. utterly  beyond  our  reach! 

The  thought  half  maddened  me.  I  lowered  myself  from 
the  roof  by  my  hands,  and  dropped  to  the  ground. 

*'  The  key  of  the  church!"  I  shouted  to  the  clerk. 
"  We  must  try  it  that  way — we  may  save  him  yet  if  we  can 
burst  open  the  inner  door." 

"  No,  no,  no!"  cried  the  old  man.  "  No  hope!  the 
church  key  and  the  vestry  key  are  on  the  same  ring — both 
inside  there!  Oh,  sir,  he's  past  saving — he's  dust  and  ashes 
by  this  time!'^ 

"  They'll  see  the  fire  from  the  town,"  said  a  voice  from 
among  the  men  behind  me.  "  There's  a  ingine  in  the 
town.     They'll  save  the  church." 

I  called  to  that  man — //ehad  his  wits  about  him — 1  called 
to  him  to  come  and  speak  to  me.  It  would  be  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  at  least  before  the  town  engine  could  reach  us. 
The  horror  of  remaining  inactive  all  that  time  was  more 
than  I  could  face.  In  defiance  of  my  own  reason,  1  per- 
suaded myself  that  the  doomed  and  lost  wretch  in  the  vestry 
might  still  be  lying  senseless  on  the  floor,  might  not  be  dead 
yet.  If  we  broke  open  the  door,  might  we  save  him!  I 
knew  the  strength  of  the  heavy  lock — 1  knew  the  thickness 
of  the  nailed  oak — I  knew  the  hopelessness  of  assailing  the 
one  and  the  other  by  ordinary  means.  But  surely  there 
were  beams  still  left  in  the  dismantled  cottages  near  the 
church?  What  if  we  got  one,  and  used  it  as  a  battering- 
ram  against  the  door? 

The  thought  leaped  through  me,  like  the  fire  leaping  out 
of  the  shattered  sky-light.  1  appealed  to  the  man  who  had 
spoken  first  of  the  fire-engine  in  the  town.  "  Have  you 
.got  your  pick-axes  handy?'^  Yes;  they  had.  "  And  a 
hatchet,  and  a  saw,  and  a  bit  of  rope?"  Yes!  yes!  yes!  I 
ran  down  among  the  villagers,  with  the  lantern  in  my  hand. 
"  Five  shillings  apiece  to  every  man  who  helps  me!"  They 
started  into  life  at  the  words.  That  ravenous  second  hunger 
of  poverty — the  hunger  for  money — roused  them  into 
tumult  and  activity  in  a  moment.  "  Two  of  you  for  more 
lanterns,  if  you  have  thtm!  Two  of  you  for  the  pick-axes 
and  the  tools!  'I'he  wst  after  me  to  find  the  boam!'^  They 
cheered — with  shr:!],  starveling  voices  they  cheered.     Tho 


THE    WO>rAK    IN-    WHITE.  50? 

women  and  the  children  fled  back  on  either  side.  We 
rushed  in  a  body  down  the  church-yard  path  to  the  first 
empty  cottage.  Not  a  man  was  left  behind  but  the  clerk 
— the  poor  old  clerk  standing  on  the  flat  tombstone  sobbing 
and  wailing  over  the  church.  The  servant  was  still  at  my 
heels:  his  white,  helpless,  panic-stricken  face  was  close  over 
my  shoulJer  as  wo  pushed  into  the  cottage.  There  were 
rafters  from  the  torn-down  floc^  above  lying  loose  on  the 
ground,  but  they  were  too  light.  A  beam  ran  across  over 
our  heads,  but  not  out  of  reach  of  our  arms  and  our  pick- 
axes— a  beam  fast  at  each  end  in  the  ruined  wall,  with  ceil- 
ing and  flooring  all  ripped  away,  and  a  great  gap  in  the 
roof  above,  open  to  the  sky.  VVe  attacked  the  beam  at 
both  ends  at  once.  God!  how  it  held — how  the  brick  and 
mortar  of  the  wall  resisted  us!  We  struck,  and  tugged, 
and  tore.  The  beam  gave  at  one  end — it  came  down  with 
a  lump  of  brick- work  aftbr  it.  There  was  a  scream  from 
the  women,  all  huddled  in  the  door-way  to  look  at  us — a 
shout  from  the  men — two  of  them  down,  but  not  hurt. 
Another  tug  all  together — and  the  beam  was  loose  at  both 
ends.  We  raised  it,  and  gave  the  word  to  clear  the  door- 
way. Now  for  the  work!  now  for  the  rush  at  the  door! 
There  is  the  fire  streaming  into  the  sky,  streaming  brighter 
than  ever  to  light  us!  Steady,  along  the  church-yard  path 
— steady  with  the  beam,  for  a  rush  at  the  door.  One,  two, 
three — and  oft'.  Out  rings  the  cheering  again,  irrepressi- 
bly.  We  have  shaken  it  already:  the  hinges  must  give,  if 
the  lock  won't.  Another  run  with  the  !:)eam!  One,  two, 
three — and  off.  It's  loose!  the  stealthy  fire  darts  at  us 
through  the  crevice  all  round  it.  Another,  and  a  last 
rush!  The  door  falls  in  vvith  a  crash.  A  great  hush  of 
awe,  a  stillness  of  breathless  expectation,  possesses  every 
lii'ing  soul  of  us.  We  look  for  the  body.  The  scorching 
heat  on  our  faces  drives  us  back:  we  see  nothing — abo^'^e, 
below,  all  through  the  room,  we  see  nothing  but  a  sheet  of 
living  fire. 

"  Where  is  he?"  whispered  the  servant,  staring  vacantly 
at  the  flames. 

"  He's  dust  and  ashes,"  said  the  clerk.  "  And  the 
books  are  dust  and  ashes — and  oh,  sirs!  the  church  will  be 
du^t  and  ashes  soon." 

Those  were  the  only  two  who  spoke.     When  they  were 


608  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

silent  again,  nothing  stirred  in  the  stillness  but  the  bubble 
and  the  crackle  of  the  flames. 

Hark! 

A  harsh  rattling  sound  in  the  distance — then  the  hollow 
beat  of  horses'  hoofs  at  full  gallop — then  the  low  roar,  the 
all-predominant  tumult  of  hundreds  of  human  voices  clam- 
Driiig  and  shouting  together.     The  engine  at  last! 

The  people  about  me  all  turned  from  the  fire,  and  ran 
aagerly  to  the  brow  of  the  hill.  The  old  clerk  tried  to  go 
with  the  rest;  but  his  strength  was  exhausted.  I  saw  him 
holding  by  one  of  the  tombstones.  "  Save  the  church!" 
he  cried  out,  faintly,  as  if  the  firemen  could  hear  him  al- 
ready.    "  Save  the  church!'^ 

The  only  man  who  never  moved  was  the  servant.  There 
he  stood,  his  eyes  still  fastened  on  the  flames  in  a  change- 
less, vacant  stare.  I  spoke  to  him,  I  shook  him  by  the  arm. 
He  was  past  rousing.  He  only  whispered  once  more, 
"  Where  is  he?" 

In  ten  minutes  the  engine  was  in  position;  the  well  at 
the  back  of  the  church  was  feeding  it;  and  the  hose  was 
carried  to  the  door-way  of  the  vestry.  If  help  had  been 
wanted  from  me,  I  could  not  have  afforded  it  now.  My 
energy  of  will  was  gone — my  strength  was  exhausted — the 
turmoil  of  my  thoughts  was  fearfully  and  suddenly  stilled, 
now  I  knew  that  he  was  dead,  I  stood  useless  and  helpless 
— looking,  looking,  looking  into  the  burning  room. 

I  saw  the  fire  slowly  conquered.  The  brightness  of  the 
glare  faded — the  steam  rose  in  white  clouds,  and  the  smol- 
dering heaps  of  embers  showed  red  and  black  through  it 
on  the  floor.  There  was  a  pause — then  an  advance  alto- 
gether of  the  firemen  and  the  police,  which  blocked  up  the 
door-way — then  a  consultation  in  low  voices — and  then  two 
men  were  detached  from  the  rest,  and  sent  out  of  the 
church-yard  through  the  crowd.  The  crowd  drew  back  on 
either  side,  in  dead  silence,  to  let  them  pass. 

After  awhile,  a  great  shudder  ran  through  the  people; 
and  the  living  lane  widened  slowly.  The  men  came  back 
along  it,  with  a  door  from  one  of  the  empty  houses.  They 
carried  it  to  the  vestry,  and  went  in.  The  police  closed 
again  round  the  door-way;  and  men  stole  out  from  among 
the  crowd  by  twos  and  threes,  and  stood  behind  them,  to 
be  the  first  to  see.  Others  waited  near,  to  be  the  first  t© 
liear.     Women  and  children  were  among  these  last. 


) 

THR    ^V'OMAN    IN"    WHITE.  509 

The  tidings  from  the  vestry  began  to  flow  out  among  fh.e 
crowd — they  dropped  slowly  from  moulli  to  month,  till 
they  reached  the  phice  where  1  was  stand iiig.  1  heard  the 
questions  and  answers  repeated  again  and  again  in  low, 
eager  tones,  all  round  me. 

"Have  they  found  him?"  "  Yes."  — "  Where?" 
"  Against  the  door;  on  his  face." — "  Which  door?'' 
''  The  door  that  goes  into  the  church.  His  head  was 
against  it;  ho  was  down  on  his  face." — "Is  his  face 
burned?"  "No."  "Yes,  it  is."  "No;  scorched,  nob 
burned;  he  lay  on  his  face,  1  tell  you." — "  Who  was  he? 
A  lord,  they  say."  "No,  not  a  lord.  ^Si?'  Something; 
Sir  means  Knight."  "And  Baronight,  too."  "No." 
"  Yes,  it  does."—"  What  did  he  want  in  there?"  "  No. 
good,  you  may  depend  on  it." — "Did  he  do  it  on  pur- 
pose?"— "Burn  himself  on  purpose!" — "I  don't  raear^ 
himself;  I  mean  the  vestry." — "Is  he  dreadful  to  look; 
at?"  "Dreadful!"— "Not  about  the  face,  though?" 
"  No,  no;  not  so  much  about  the  face. — "  Don't  anybody 
know  him?"  "  There's  a  man  says  he  does." — "  Who?" 
"  A  servant,  they  say.  But  he's  struck  stupid-like,  and 
the  police  don't  believe  him." — "  Don't  anybody  else  know 
who  it  is?"     "Hush—!" 

The  loud,  clear  voice  of  a  man  in  authority  silenced  the 
low  hum  of  talking  all  round  me  in  an  instant. 

"  Where  is  the  gentleman  who  tried  to  save  him?"  said 
the  voice. 

"  Here,  sir — here  he  is!"  Dozens  of  cnger  faces  pressed 
about  me — dozens  of  eager  arms  parted  the  crowd.  The 
man  in  authority  came  up  to  me  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand 

"  This  way,  sir,  if  you  please,"  he  said,  quietly. 

I  was  unable  to  speak  to  him;  I  was  unable  to  resist  him, 
when  he  took  my  arm.  I  tried  to  say  that  1  had  never  seer, 
the  dead  man  in  his  life-time — that  there  was  no  hope  of 
identifying  him  by  means  of  a  stranger  like  me.  But  tho 
words  failed  on  my  lips.  I  was  faint  and  silent  and  help 
less. 

"  Do  you  know  him,  sir?" 

I  was  standing  inside  a  circle  of  men.  Three  of  them 
opposite  to  me,  were  holding  lanterns  low  down  to  th» 
ground.  Their  eyes,  and  the  e3'-es  of  all  the  rest,  were  V.xou 
Bileutly  and  expectantly  on  my  face.     I  knew  what  waj.  ..i- 


filO  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITR. 

my  feet — I  knew  why  thoy  were  holding  the  lanterns  so 
I'ow  to  the  ground. 

"  Can  you  identify  him,  sir?" 

My  eyes  dropped  slowly.  At  first  I  saw  nothing  under 
them  but  a  coarse  canvas  cloth.  The  dri2:>ping  of  the  raiq 
on  it  was  audible  in  tiie  dreadful  silence.  1  looked  up  along 
the  cloth;  and  there  at  the  end,  stark  and  grim  and  black, 
In  the  yellow  light — there  was  his  dead  face. 

So,  for  the  first  and  last  time,  1  saw  him.  So  the  Visita» 
tion  of  God  ruled  ic  that  he  and  I  should  meet. 


XI. 


The  inquest  was  hurried,  for  certain  local  reasons  which 
weighed  witii  the  coroner  and  the  town  authorities.  It  was 
held  on  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day.  I  was,  necessarily, 
one  among  the  witnesses  summoned  to  assist  the  objects 
cf  the  investigation. 

My  first  proceeding  in  the  morning  was  to  go  to  the 
post-office  and  inquire  for  the  letter  which  I  expected  from 
Marian.  No  change  of  circuraslances,  however  extraor- 
dinary, could  affect  the  one  great  anxiety  which  weighed 
on  my  mind  while  I  was  away  from  London.  The  morn- 
ing's letter,  which  wiis  the  only  assurance  I  could  receive 
that  no  misfortune  had  happened  in  my  absence,  was  still 
the  absorbing  interest  with  wiiich  my  day  began. 

To  my  relief,  the  letter  from  Marian  was  at  the  office 
waiting  for  me. 

Nothing  had  happened — they  were  both  as  safe  and  as 
well  as  when  I  had  left  them.  Laura  sent  her  love,  and 
begged  that  1  would  let  her  know  of  my  return  a  day  be- 
forehand, ller  sister  added,  in  explanation  of  this  message, 
that  she  had  saved  "  nearly  a  sovereign  "  out  of  her  own 
private  purse,  and  that  she  had  claimed  the  privilege  of 
ordering  the  dinner  and  giving  the  dinner  which  was  to 
celebrate  the  day  of  my  return.  I  read  these  little  domestia 
confidences,  in  the  bright  morning,  with  the  terrible  recol- 
lection of  what  had  happened  the  evening  before  vivid  in 
my  memory.  The  necessity  of  sparing  Laura  any  sudden 
knowledge  of  the  truth  was  the  first  consideration  which 
the  letter  suggested  to  me.  1  wrote  at  once  to  Marian,  to 
tell  her  what  I  have  told  in  these  pages;   presenting  th& 


THE    WOMAN    IK    WHITE.  611 

tidiiigs  as  gradually  aii'.l  gently  as  1  could,  and  warning  her 
not  to  let  any  such  thing  as  a  newspaper  fall  in  Laura's 
way  while  1  was  absent.  In  the  ease  of  any  other  woman 
less  courageous  and  less  reliable,  I  might  have  hesitated 
before  1  ventured  on  unreservedly  disclosing  the  whole 
truth.  But  I  owed  it  to  Marian  to  be  faithful  to  my  past 
experience  of  her,  and  to  trust  her  as  I  trusted  myself. 

My  letter  was  necessarily  a  long  one.  It  occupied  me 
until  the  time  came  for  proceeding  to  the  niouest. 

The  objects  of  the  legal  inquiry  were  necessarily  beset  by 
peculiar  complications  and  difficulties.  Besides  the  investi- 
gation into  the  manner  in  which  the  deceased  had  met  his 
death,  there  were  serious  questions  to  be  settled  relating  to 
the  cause  of  the  fire,  to  the  abstraction  of  the  keys,  and  to 
the  presence  of  a  stranger  ni  the  vestry  at  the  time  when 
the  flames  broke  out.  Even  the  identification  of  the  dead 
man  had  not  yet  been  accomplished.  The  helpless  con- 
dition of  the  servant  had  made  the  police  distrustful  of  his 
asserted  recognition  of  his  master.  Yhey  had  sent  to 
Knowlesbury  overnight  to  secure  the  attendance  of  witnesses 
who  were  well  acquainted  with  the  personal  appearance  of 
Sir  Percival  Glyde,  and  they  had  communicated,  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning,  with  Blackwater  Park.  These  pre- 
cautions enabled  the  coroner  and  jury  to  settle  the  question 
of  identity,  and  to  confirm  the  correctness  of  the  servant's 
assertion;  the  evidence  offered  by  competent  witnesses,  and 
by  the  discovery  of  certain  facts,  being  subsequently 
strengthened  by  an  examination  of  the  dead  man's  watch. 
The  crest  and  the  name  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde  were  en- 
graved inside  it. 

The  next  inquiries  related  to  the  fire. 

The  servant  and  I,  and  the  boy  who  had  heard  the  light 
struck  in  the  vestry,  were  the  first  witnesses  called.  The 
boy  gave  his  evidence  clearly  enough;  but  the  servant's 
mind  had  not  yet  recovered  the  shock  inflicted  on  it — he 
was  plainly  incapable  of  assisting  the  objects  of  the  inquiry, 
and  he  was  desired  to  stand  down. 

To  my  own  relief,  my  examination  was  not  a  long  ono. 
1  had  not  known  the  deceased;  I  had  never  seen  him;  I 
was  not  aware  of  his  presence  at  Old  Welmingham;  and  I 
had  not  been  in  the  vestry  at  the  finding  of  the  body.  All 
I  could  prove  was  that  I  had  stopped  at  the  clerk's  cottage 
to  ask  my  way;  that  I  had  heard  from  him  of  the  loss  of 


612  THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

the  keys;  that  I  had  accompanied  liiin  to  the  church  to 
render  what  help  I  could;  that  I  had  seen  the  fire;  that  I 
had  heard  some  person  unknown,  inside  the  vestry,  trying 
vainly  to  unlock  the  door;  and  Ihat  I  hal  done  what  I 
could,  from  motives  of  humanity,  to  save  the  man.  Oilier 
witnesses,  vvlio  had  been  acquainted  with  the  deceased,  were 
asked  if  they  could  explain  the  mystery  of  his  presumed 
abstraction  of  the  keys,  and  his  presence  in  the  burning 
room.  But  the  coroner  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted,  nat- 
urally enough,  that  I,  as  a  total  stranger  in  the  neiglibor- 
hood,  and  a  total  stranger  to  Sir  Percival  Gl3^de,  could  not 
be  in  a  position  to  otTer  any  evidence  on  these  two  points. 

The  course  that  I  was  myself  bound  to  take,  when  my 
formal  examination  had  closed,  seemed  clear  to  me.  1  did 
not  feel  called  on  to  volunteer  any  statement  of  my  own 
private  convictions;  in  the  first  place,  because  my  doing  so 
could  serve  no  practical  purpose,  now  that  all  proof  in  sup- 
port of  any  surmises  of  mine  was  burned  with  the  burned 
register;  in  the  second  place,  because  I  could  not  have  in- 
telligibly stated  my  opinion — my  unsupported  opinion — 
without  disclosing  the  whole  story  of  the  conspiracy;  and 
producing,  beyond  a  doubt,  the  same  unsatisfactory  effect 
on  the  mnids  of  the  coroner  and  the  jury  which  ^  had  al- 
ready produced  on  the  mind  of  Mr.  Kyrle. 

In  these  pages,  however,  and  after  the  time  that  has  now 
elapsed,  no  such  cautions  and  restraints  as  are  here  de- 
scribed need  fetter  the  free  expression  of  my  opinion.  1 
will  state  briefly,  before  my  pen  occupies  itself  with  other 
events,  how  my  own  convictions  lead  me  to  account  for  the 
abstraction  of  the  kiys,  for  the  outbreak  of  the  fire,  and 
for  the  death  of  the  man. 

The  news  of  my  being  free  on  bail  drove  Sir  Percival,  as 
1  believe,  to  his  last  resources.  The  aUempted  attack  on 
the  road  was  one  of  those  resources;  and  the  suppression 
of  all  practical  proof  of  his  crime,  by  destroying  the  page 
of  the  register  on  which  the  forgery  had  been  committed, 
was  the  other,  and  the  surest  of  the  two.  If  I  could  pro- 
duce no  extract  from  the  original  book,  to  compare  with 
the  certified  co23y  at  Knowlesbury,  I  could  produce  no 
positive  evidence,  and  could  threaten  him  with  no  fatal  ex- 
posure. All  that  was  necessary  to  the  attainment  of  hia 
I'nd  was,  that  he  should  get  into  the  vestry  unpereeived, 
ibut  he  should  tear  out  the  page  in  the  register,  and  thai; 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  513 

he  should  leave  the  vestry  again  as  privately  as  he  had  en- 
tered it. 

On  this  supposition,  it  is  easy  to  understand  why  hia 
waited  until  nightfall  before  he  made  the  attempt,  and  why 
he  took  advantage  of  the  clerk's  absence  to  possess  him- 
self of  the  keys.  Necessity  would  oblige  him  to  strike  a 
light  to  find  his  way  to  the  right  register;  and  common 
caution  would  suggest  his  locking  the  door  on  the  inside  in 
case  of  intrusion  on  the  part  of  any  inquisitive  stranger,  or 
on  my  part,  if  I  happened  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  at  the 
time. 

I  can  not  believe  that  it  was  any  part  of  his  intention  to 
make  the  destruction  of  the  register  appear  to  be  the  re- 
sult of  accident,  by  purposely  setting  the  vestry  on  fire. 
The  bare  chance  that  prompt  assistance  might  arrive,  and 
that  the  books  might,  by  the  remotest  possibility,  be  saveil, 
would  have  been  enough,  on  a  moment's  consideration,  to 
dismiss  any  idea  of  this  sort  from  his  mind.  Kemember- 
iug  the  quantity  of  combustible  objects  in  the  vestry — the 
straw,  the  papers,  the  packing-cases,  the  dry  wood,  the  old 
worm-eaten  presses — all  the  probabilities,  in  my  estimation, 
point  to  the  fire  as  the  result  of  an  accident  with  his 
matches  or  his  light. 

His  first  impulse,  under  these  circumstances,  was  doubt- 
less to  try  to  extinguish  the  flames — and,  failing  in  that, 
his  second  impulse  (ignorant  as  he  was  of  the  state  of  the 
lock)  had  been  to  attempt  to  escape  by  the  door  which  had 
given  him  entrance.  When  I  had  called  to  him  the  flames 
must  have  reached  across  the  door  leading  into  the  church, 
on  either  side  of  which  the  presses  extended,  and  close  to 
which  the  other  combustible  objects  were  placed.  In  all 
probability,  the  smoke  and  flame  (confined  as  they  were  to 
the  room)  had  been  too  mucih  for  him  when  he  tried  to 
escape  by  the  iimer  door.  He  must  have  dropped  in  his 
death-swoon — he  must  have  sunk  in  the  place  where  he  was 
found — just  as  I  got  on  the  roof  to  break  the  sky-light 
window.  Even  if  we  had  been  able  afterward  to  get  into 
the  church,  and  to  burst  open  the  door  from  that  side,  the 
delay  must  have  been  fatal.  He  would  have  been  past  sa  ving, 
long  past  saving,  by  that  time.  We  should  only  have  given 
the  flames  free  ingress  into  the  church — the  church,  which 
was  now  preserved,  but  which,  in  that  even,  would  have 
shared  the  fate  of  the  vestry.  There  is  no  doubt  in  my  niiud 


5l4  THE    WOMAN-    IN    WHITV). 

— there  can  be  no  doubt  iu  the  mind  of  any  one — that  he 
was  a  dead  man  before  ever  we  got  to  the  emptj'  cottage 
and  worked  with  might  and  main  to  tear  down  the  beam. 

This  is  the  nearest  approach  that  any  theory  of  mine 
can  make  toward  accounting  for  a  result  which  was  visible 
matter  of  fact.  As  I  have  described  them,  so  events  passed 
to  us  outside.     As  1  have  related  it,  so  his  body  was  found. 

The  inquest  was  adjourned  over  one  day;  no  explanation 
that  the  eye  of  the  law  could  recognize  having  been  dis- 
covered thus  far  to  account  for  the  mysterious  ciicum 
stances  of  the  case. 

It  was  arranged  that  more  witnesses  should  be  summoned, 
and  that  the  London  solicitor  of  the  deceased  should  be  in- 
vited to  attend.  A  medical  man  was  also  charged  with  the 
duty  of  reporting  on  the  mental  condition  of  the  servant, 
which  appeared  at  present  to  debar  hiai  from  giving  any 
evidence  of  the  least  importance.  He  could  only  declare, 
in  a  dazed  way,  that  he  had  been  ordered,  on  the  night  of 
the  fire,  to  wait  in  the  lane,  and  that  he  knew  nothing 
else,  except  that  the  deceased  was  certainly  his  master. 

My  own  impression  was  that  he  had  been  first  used  (with- 
out any  guilty  knowledge  on  his  own  part)  to  ascertain  the 
fact  of  the  clerk's  absence  from  home  on  the  previous  day; 
and  that  he  had  been  afterward  ordered  to  wait  near  the 
church  (but  out  of  sight  of  the  vestry)  to  assist  his  mas- 
ter, in  the  event  of  my  escaping  the  attack  on  the  road, 
^nd  of  a  collision,  occurring  between  Sir  Percival  and  my- 
self. It  is  necessary  to  add  that  the  man's  own  testimony 
was  never  obtained  to  confirm  this  view.  The  medical  re- 
port of  him  declared  that  what  little  mental  faculty  he 
possessed  was  seriously  shaken;  nothing  satisfactory  was 
extracted  from  him  at  tJie  adjourned  inquest;  and,  for 
aught  I  know  to  the  contrary,  he  may  never  have  recovered 
to  this  day. 

I  returned  to  the  hotel  at  Welmingham,  so  jaded  in  body 
and  mind,  so  weakened  and  depressed  by  all  that  I  had 
gone  through,  as  to  be  quite  unfit  to  endure  the  local  gos- 
si[)  about  the  inquest,  and  to  answer  the  trivial  questions 
that  the  talkers  addressed  to  me  in  the  colfee-room.  I 
.vitlidrew  from  my  scanty  dinner  to  my  cheap  garret- 
ilianiber  to  secure  myself  a  little  quiet,  and  to  think,  un- 
disturbe  I,  of  Laura  and  Marian. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  515 

If  1  had  been  a  richer  man  1  would  have  gone  back  to 
London,  and  would  have  comforted  myself  wiili  ;i  siglit  of 
the  two  dear  faces  again,  that  night.  But  1  was  bound  to 
appear,  if  called  on,  at  the  adjourned  inquest,  and  doubly 
bound  to  answer  my  bail  before  the  magistrate  at  Knowius- 
bury.  Our  slender  resources  had  sullered  already;  and  the 
doubtful  future — more  doubtful  than  ever  now — made  me 
dread  decreasing  our  means  unnecessarily  by  allowing  my- 
self an  indulgence,  even  at  the  small  cost  of  a  double  rail- 
way journey  in  the  carriages  of  the  second  class. 

The  next  day — the  day  immediately  following  the  inquest 
— was  left  at  my  own  disposal.  1  began  the  morning  by 
again  ajjplying  at  the  post-ofiQce  for  my  regular  report  from 
Marian.  It  was  waiting  for  me,  as  before,  and  it  was  writ- 
ten throughout  in  good  spirits.  1  read  the  letter  thank- 
fully; and  then  set  forth,  with  my  mind  at  ease  for  the 
day,  to  go  to  Old  Welmingham,  and  to  view  the  scene  of 
the  fire  by  the  morning  light. 

What  changes  met  me  when  1  got  there! 

Through  all  the  ways  of  our  unintelligible  world  the 
trivial  and  the  terrible  walk  hand  in  hand  together.  The 
irony  of  circumstances  holds  no  mortal  catastrophe  in  re- 
spect. When  I  reached  the  church  the  trampled  condition 
of  the  burial-ground  was  the  only  serious  trace  left  to  tell 
of  the  fire  and  the  death.  A  rough  hoarding  of  boards  had 
been  knocked  up  before  the  vestry  door-way.  Rude  cari- 
catures were  scrawled  on  it  already;  and  the  village  children 
were  fighting  and  shouting  for  the  possession  of  the  best 
peep-hole  to  see  through.  On  the  spot  where  I  had  heard 
the  cry  for  help  from  the  buridng  room,  on  the  spot  where 
the  panic-stricken  servant  had  dropped  on  his  knees,  a 
fussy  flock  of  poultry  was  now  scrambling  for  the  first 
choice  of  worms  after  the  rain — and  on  the  ground  at  my 
feet,  where  the  door  and  its  dreadful  burden  bad  been 
laid,  a  workman's  dinner  was  waiting  for  him,  tied  up  in  a 
yellow  basin,  and  his  faithful  cur  in  charge  was  yelping  at 
me  for  coming  near  the  food.  The  old  clerk,  looking  idly 
at  the  slow  commencement  of  the  repairs,  had  only  one  in- 
terest that  he  could  talk  about  now — the  interest  of  escap- 
ing all  blame,  for  his  own  part,  on  account  of  the  accident 
that  had  happened.  One  of  the  village  women,  whose 
white,  wild  face  I  remembered,  the  picture  of  terror,  v/lien 
we  pulled  down  the  beam,  was  giggling  with  another  worn- 


616  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

an,  the  picture  of  inanity,  over  an  old  washing-tub. 
There  is  nothing  serious  in  mortality!  Solomon,  in  all  his 
glory,  was  Solomon  with  the  elements  of  the  contemotible 
lurking  in  every  fold  of  his  robes  and  in  every  corner  of  his 
palace. 

As  I  left  the  place  my  thoughts  turned,  not  for  the  first 
time,  to  the  complete  overthrow  that  all  present  hope  of 
pstabhshing  Laura's  identity  had  now  suffered  through  Sir 
Percivars  death.  He  was  gone — and,  with  him,  the  chance 
was  gone  which  had  been  the  one  object  of  all  my  labors 
and  all  my  holies. 

Could  I  look  ai  riiV  failure  from  no  truer  point  of  view 
than  this? 

Suppose  he  had  lived— would  that  change  of  ciroura- 
itance  have  altered  the  result.?  Could  1  have  made  my  dis- 
covery a  marketable  comtflodity,  even  for  Laura's  sake, 
after  I  had  found  out  that  robbery  of  the  rights  of  others 
was  the  essence  of  Sir  Percival's  crime?  Could  I  have 
offered  the  price  of  my  silence  for  his  confession  of  the 
conspiracy,  when  the  effect  of  that  siicnce  must  have  been 
to  keep  the  right  heir  from  the  estates,  and  the  right  owner 
from  Ihe  name?  Impossible!  If  Sir  Percival  had  lived, 
the  discovery,  from  which  (in  my  ignorance  of  the  true  nat- 
ure of  the  Secret)  I  had  hoped  so  much,  could  not  have 
been  mine  to  suppress  or  to  make  public,  as  I  thought  best, 
for  the  vindication  of  Laura's  rights.  In  comnion  honesty 
and  common  honor,  I  must  have  gone  at  once  to  the 
stranger  whose  birthright  had  been  usurped — I  mr.st  have 
renounced  the  victory  at  the  moment  when  it  was  mine,  by 
placing  my  discovery  unreservedly  in  that  stranger's  hands, 
and  1  must  have  faced  afresh  all  the  difficulties  which  stood 
between  me  and  the  one  object  of  my  life,  exactly  as  I  was 
resolved,  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  to  face  them  now! 

1  returned  to  Welmingham  with  my  mind  composed; 
feehng  more  sure  of  myself  and  my  resolution  than  1  had 
felt  yet. 

On  my  way  to  the  hotel  I  passed  the  end  of  the  square 
in  which  Mrs.  Catlierick  lived.  Should  I  go  back  to  the 
house,  and  make  another  attempt  to  see  her?  No.  That 
news  of  Sir  Percival's  death,  which  was  the  last  news  she 
ever  expected  tn  hi  ar,  must  have  reached  her  hours  since. 
All' the  proceedings  at  the  infjuest  had  been  reported  in  the 
local  paper  that   morning:  there  was  nothing  1  could  teh 


THE    WOMAN-    IN    WHITE.  517 

her  which  she  did  not  know  already.  My  interest  in  mak- 
ing her  speak  had  slackened.  1  remembered  the  furtive 
hatred  in  her  face  when  she  said,  "  There  is  no  news  of  Sir 
Percival  that  I  don't  expect — except  the  news  of  his  death. " 
1  remembered  the  stealthy  interest  in  her  eyes  when  they 
settled  on  me  at  parting,  after  she  had  spoken  those  words. 
Some  instinct,  deep  in  my  heart,  which  I  felt  to  be  a  true 
one,  made  the  prospect  of  again  entering  her  presence  re- 
pulsive to  me — J  turned  a,\^'i^^[  from  the  square,  and  went 
straight  back  to  the  hotel. 

Some  hours  later,  while  I  was  resting  in  the  cofEee-room, 
a  letter  was  placed  in  my  hands  by  the  waiter.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  me  by  name;  and  1  found,  on  inquiry,  that  it 
had  been  left  at  the  bar  by  a  woman  just  as  it  was  near 
dusk,  and  just  before  the  gas  was  lighted.  She  had  said 
nothing;  and  she  had  gone  away  again  before  there  was 
time  to  speak  to  her,  or  even  to  notice  who  she  was. 

I  opened  the  letter.  It  was  neither  dated  nor  signed, 
and  the  handwriting  was  palpably  disguised.  Before  1  had 
read  the  first  sentence,  however,  I  knew  who  my  corre- 
spondent was.     Mrs.  Catherick. 

The  letter  ran  as  follows — 1  copy  it  exactly,  word  for 
word: 

The  Story  continued  hy  Mks.  Catherick. 

Sir, — You  have  not  come  back,  as  you  said  you  would. 
No  matter;  I  know  the  news,  and  I  write  to  tell  you  so. 
Did  you  see  anything  particular  in  my  face  when  you  left 
me?  I  was  wondering,  in  my  own  mind,  whether  the  day 
of  his  downfall  had  come  at  last,  and  whether  you  were  the 
chosen  instrument  for  working  it.  You  were— and  you 
have  worked  it. 

You  were  weak  enough,  as  I  have  heard,  to  try  and  save 
his  life.  If  you  had  succeeded,  I  should  have  looked  u2>on 
you  as  my  enemy.  Now  you  have  failed,  I  hold  you  as  my 
friend.  Your  inquiries  frightened  him  into  the  vestry  by 
night;  your  inquiries,  without  your  privity  and  against 
your  will,  have  served  the  hatred  and  wreaked  the  ven- 
geance of  three-and-tweuty  years.  Thank  you,  sir,  in  spite 
of  yourself. 

I  owe  something  to  the  man  who  has  done  this,  llow 
can  I  pay  my  debt?  If  I  was  a  young  woman  still,  I  might 
say,  "  Come!  put  your  arm  round  my  waist,  and  kiss  me, 


518  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

if  you  like.''  I  should  have  been  fond  enough  of  you,  even 
to  go  that  length;  and  you  would  have  accepted  my  invita- 
tion— you  would,  air,  twenty  years  ago!  But  i  am  an  old 
woman  now.  Well!  I  can  satisfy  your  curiosity,  and  j)ay 
my  debt  in  that  way.  You  liad  a  great  curiosity  to  know 
certain  private  affairs  of  mine,  when  you  came  to  see  me 
— private  affairs  which  all  your  sharpness  cotdd  not  look 
into  without  my  help — private  ati'airs  which  you  have  not 
discovered  even  now.  You  sliull  discover  them;  your  curi- 
osity shall  be  satisfied.  1  will  take  any  troul.'''*  to  please 
you,  my  estimable  young  friend! 

You  were  a  little  boy,  1  suppose,  in  the  year  twenty- 
seven?  1  was  a  handsome  young  woman  at  iliat  time,  liv- 
ing at  Old  Welmingham.  I  had  a  contemptible  fool  for  a 
husband.  1  had  also  the  honor  of  being  acquainted  (never 
mind  how)  with  a  certain  gentleman  (never  mind  whom). 
.  shall  not  call  him  by  his  name.  Why  should  1?  It  was 
not  his  own.  He  never  had  a  name:  you  know  that,  by 
this  time,  as  well  as  I  do. 

It  will  be  more  to  the  purpose  to  tell  you  how  he  worked 
himself  into  my  good  graces.  I  was  born  with  the  tastes 
of  a  lady,  and  he  gratified  them.  In  others  words,  he  ad- 
mired me,  and  he  made  me  presents.  Jno  woman  can  re- 
sist admiration  and  presents — especially  presents,  provided 
they  happen  to  be  just  the  things  she  wants,  lie  was  sharp 
enough  to  know  that — most  m.en  are.  iS'aturally,  he  want- 
ed something  in  return— all  men  do.  And  what  do  you 
think  was  the  something?  The  merest  trifle.  Nothing 
but  the  key  of  the  vestry,  and  (he  key  of  the  press  inside 
it,  when  my  husband's  back  was  turned.  Of  course  he  lied 
when  I  asked  him  why  he  wished  me  to  get  him  the  keys 
in  that  private  way.  He  might  have  saved  himself  the 
trouble — 1  didn't  believe  him.  But  I  liked  my  presents, 
and  1  wanted  more.  So  1  got  him  the  keys,  without  my 
husband's  knowledge;  and  I  watched  him,  without  his  own 
knowledge.  Once,  twice,  four  times,  I  watched  him,  and 
the  fourth  time  1  found  him  out. 

I  was  never  overscrupulous  where  other  people's  affairs 
were  concerned;  and  I  was  not  overscrupulous  about  his 
adding  one  to  the  marriages  in  the  register,  on  his  own  ac- 
count. 

Of  course,  I  knew  it  was  wrong;  but  it  did  no  harm  to 
me — which   was  one  good  reason  for   not  making  a  fuss 


THE    WOMAN    TN    WHITE.  519 

a^out  it.  And  I  had  not  got  a  gold  watch  and  chain — 
which  was  another,  still  better.  And  he  had  promised  me 
one  from  London  only  the  day  before — which  was  a  third, 
best  of  all.  If  I  had  known  what  the  law  considered  the 
crime  to  be,  and  how  the  law  punished  it,  1  should  have 
taken  proper  care  of  myself,  and  have  exposed  him  then 
and  there.  But  1  knew  nothing,  and  I  longed  for  the  gold 
watch.  All  the  conditions  I  insisted  on  were  that  he  should 
take  me  into  his  confidence  and  tell  me  everything.  I  was 
as  curious  about  his  affairs  then,  as  you  are  about  mine 
now.  He  granted  my  conditions— why,  you  will  see  pres- 
ently. 

This,  put  in  short,  is  what  1  heard  from  him.  He  did 
not  willingly  tell  me  all  that  1  tell  you  here.  I  drew  some 
of  it  from  him  by  persuasion  and  some  of  it  by  questions. 
I  was  determined  to  have  all  the  truth,  and  I  believe  I  got 
it. 

He  knew  no  more  than  any  one  else  of  what  the  state  of 
things  really  was  between  his  father  and  mother,  till  after 
his  mother's  death.  Then,  his  father  confessed  it,  and 
promised  to  do  what  he  could  for  his  son.  He  died  having 
done  nothing— not  having  even  made  a  will.  The  son 
(who  can  blame  him?)  wisely  provided  for  himself.  He 
came  to  England  at  once,  and  took  possession  of  the  prop- 
erty. There  was  no  one  to  suspect  him,  and  no  one  to  say 
him  nay.  His  father  and  mother  had  always  lived  as  man 
and  wife — none  of  the  few  people  who  were  acquainted  with 
them  ever  supposed  them  to  be  anything  else.  The  right 
person  to  claim  the  property  (if  the  truth  had  been  known) 
was  a  distant  relation,  who  had  no  idea  of  ever  getting  it, 
and  who  was  away  at  sea  when  his  father  died.  He  had 
no  difficulty,  so  far — he  took  possession,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  But  he  could  not  borrow  money  on  the  property 
as  a  matter  of  course.  There  were  two  things  wanted  of 
him,  before  he  could  do  this.  One  was  a  certificate  of  his 
birth,  and  the  other  was  a  certificate  of  his  parents'  mar- 
riage. The  certificate  of  his  birth  was  easily  got — he  was 
born  abroad — and  the  certificate  was  there  in  due  form. 
The  other  matter  was  a  difficulty — and  that  difficulty 
brought  him  to  Old  Welmingham. 

But  for  one  consideration,  he  might  have  gone  to  Knowles- 
bury  instead. 

His  mother  had  been  living  there  just  before  she  met  ?;itb 


530  THE    WO:\IAN    IN    WHITE. 

his  father — living  under  her  maiden  name;  the  truth  being 
that  she  was  really  a  married  woman;  married  in  Ireland, 
where  her  husband  had  ill-used  her,  and  had  afterward 
gone  off  with  some  other  person.  I  give  you  this  fact  on 
good  authority:  Sir  Felix  mentioned  it  to  his  son,  as  the 
reason  why  he  had  not  married.  You  may  wonder  why 
the  son,  knowing  that  his  parents  had  met  each  other  at 
Kiiowlesbury,  did  not  play  his  first  tricks  with  the  register 
of  that  church,  where  it  might  have  been  fairly  presumed 
his  father  and  mother  were  married.  The  reason  was,  that 
the  clergyman  who  did  duty  at  Knowlesbury  Church,  in 
the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  three  (when,  according  to 
his  birth-certificate,  his  father  and  mother  ought  to  have 
been  married)  was  alive  still,  when  he  took  possession  of 
the  property  in  the  Kew  Year  of  eighteen  hundred  and 
twenty-seven.  This  awkward  circumstances  forced  him  to 
extend  his  inquiries  to  our  neighborhood.  There  no  such 
danger  sxisted,  the  former  clergyman  at  our  church  having 
been  dead  for  some  years. 

Old  Welmingham  suited  his  purpose  as  well  as  Knowles- 
bury. His  father  had  removed  his  mother  from  Knowles- 
bury, and  had  lived  with  her  at  a  cottage  on  the  river,  a  lit- 
tle distance  from  our  village.  People  who  had  known  his 
solitary  ways  when  he  was  single,  did  not  wonder  at  his 
solitary  ways  when  he  was  supposed  to  be  married.  If  he 
had  not  been  a  hideous  creature  to  look  at,  his  retired  life 
with  the  lady  might  have  raised  suspicions:  but,  as  things 
were,  his  hiding  his  ugliness  and  his  deformity  in  the  strict- 
est privacy  surprised  nobody.  He  lived  in  our  neiglibor- 
hood  till  he  came  in  possession  of  the  Park.  After  three 
or  four  and  twenty  years  had  passed,  who  was  to  say  (the 
clergyman  being  dead)  that  his  marriage  had  not  been  as 
private  as  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  that  it  had  not  taken 
place  at  Old  Welmingham  Church? 

So,  as  I  told  you,  the  son  found  our  neighborhood  the 
surest  place  he  could  choose,  to  set  things  right  secretly  in 
his  own  interests.  It  may  surprise  you  to  hear  that  what 
he  really  did  to  the  marriage-register  was  done  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment — done  on  second  thoughts. 

Ilis  first  notion  was  only  to  tear  the  leaf  out  (in  the  right 
year  and  month),  to  destroy  it  privately,  to  go  back  to 
London,  and  to  tell  tin;  lawyers  to  get  him  the  necessary 
vcrtificate  of  bis  father's  marriage,  innocently  referring 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  52l 

them,  of  course,  to  the  date  on  the  leaf  that  was  goiu\ 
Nobody  could  say  his  father  aud  mother  had  not  been  mar- 
ried after  that — and  vviiether,  under  the  circumstances,  they 
would  stretch  a  paint  or  not  about  lending  him  the  money 
(he  thought  they  would),  he  had  his  answer  ready  at  all 
events,  if  a  question  was  ever  raised  about  his  right  to  the 
name  aud  the  estate. 

But  when  he  came  to  look  privately  at  the  register  for 
himself,  he  found  at  the  bottom  of  one  of  the  pages  for 
the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  three  a  blank  space  left, 
seemingly  tlirough  there  being  no  room  to  make  a  long  en- 
try there,  which  was  made  instead  at  the  top  of  the  next 
page.  The  sight  of  this  chance  altered  all  his  plans.  It  was 
an  opportunity  he  had  never  hoped  for,  or  thought  of — and 
he  took  it,  you  know  how.  The  blank  space,  to  have  ex- 
actly tallied  with  his  birth-certificate,  ought  to  have  oc- 
curred in  the  July  part  of  the  register.  It  occurred  in  the 
September  part  instead.  However,  in  this  case,  if  suspi- 
cious questions  were  asked,  the  answer  was  not  hard  to  find. 
He  had  only  to  describe  himself  as  a  seven-months'  child. 

1  was  fool  enough,  when  he  told  me  his  story,  to  feel 
some  interest  and  some  pity  for  him — which  was  just  what 
he  calculated  on,  as  you  will  see.  I  thought  him  hardly 
used.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  his  father  and  mother  were 
not  married;  and  it  was  not  his  father's  and  mother's 
fault  either.  A  more  scrupulous  woman  than  I  was — a 
woman  who  had  not  set  her  heart  on  a  gold  watch  and 
chain — would  have  found  some  excuses  for  him.  At  all 
events,  I  held  my  tongue,  and  helped  to  screen  what  he 
was  about. 

He  was  some  time  getting  the  ink  the  right  color  (mix- 
ing it  over  and  over  again  in  pots  and  bottles  of  mine),  and. 
some  time  afterward,  in  practicing  the  handwriting.  But 
lie  succeeded  in  the  end — and  made  an  honest  woman  of 
his  mother  after  she  was  dead  in  her  grave!  So  far,  1 
don't  deny  that  he  behaved  honorably  enough  to  myself. 
He  gave  me  my  watch  and  chain,  and  spared  no  expense 
in  buying  them;  both  were  of  superior  workmanship,  and 
very  expensive.  I  have  got  them  still — the  watch  goes 
beautifully. 

You  said,  the  other  day,  that  Mrs.  Clements  had  told 
you  everything   she   knew.     In  that  case,  there  is  no  need 


522  THE    WOMA.N"    IN"    WHITE. 

* 

for  me  write  about  the  tiinnpery  scandal  by  which  I  was 
the  sufferer — the  iuuocent  suti'erer,  1  positively  assert. 
You  must  knovy  as  well  as  1  do  what  the  notiou  was  which 
my  husband  took  iuto  his  head,  when  he  found  me  and  my 
fine  gentleman  acquaintance  meeting  each  other  privately, 
and  tallying  secrets  together.  But  what  you  don't  know, 
is  how  it  ended  between  that  same  gentleman  and  myself. 
You  shall  read,  and  see  how  he  behaved  to  me. 

The  fix'st  words  1  said  to  him,  when  I  saw  the  turn  things 
had  taken,  were,  "Do  me  justice;  clear  my  character  of 
a  stain  on  it  which  you  know  I  don't  deserve.  1  don't 
want  you  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  my  husband;  only 
tell  him  on  your  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman,  that  he  is 
wrong,  and  that  I  am  not  to  blame  in  the  way  he  thinks  I 
am.  Do  me  that  justice,  at  least,  after  all  I  have  done 
for  you. "  He  flatly  refused,  in  so  many  words.  He  told 
me,  plainly,  that  it  was  his  interest  to  let  my  husband  and 
all  my  neighbors  believe  the  falsehood — because,  as  long 
as  they  did  so,  they  were  quite  certain  never  to  suspect  the 
truth.  I  had  a  spirit  of  my  own;  and  I  told  him  they 
should  know  the  truth  from  my  lips.  His  reply  was  short 
and  to  the  point.  If  I  spoke,  I  was  a  lost  woman,  as  cer- 
tainly as  he  was  a  lost  man. 

Yes!  it  had  come  to  that.  He  had  deceived  me  about 
the  risk  1  ran  in  helping  him.  He  had  practiced  on  my 
ignorance:  he  had  tempted  me  with  his  gifts;  he  had  in- 
terested me  with  his  story — and  the  result  of  it  was  that  he 
had  made  me  his  accomplice.  He  owned  this  coolly;  and 
he  ended  by  telling  me,  for  the  first  time,  what  the  fright- 
ful punishment  really  was  for  his  offense,  and  for  any  one 
who  helped  him  to  commit  it.  In  those  days,  the  law  was 
not  so  tender-hearted  as  I  hear  it  is  now.  Murderers  were 
not  the  only  people  liable  to  be  hanged;  and  women  con- 
victs were  not  treated  like  ladies  in  undeserved  distress. 
1  confess  he  frightened  me — the  mean  impostor!  the  cow- 
ardly blackguard!  Do  you  understand,  now,  how  I  hated 
him?  Do  you  understand  why  1  am  taking  all  this  trouble 
— thankfully  taking  it — to  gratify  the  curiosity  of  the  meri- 
torious young  gentleman  wTio  hunted  him  down? 

Well,  to  go  on.  He  was  hardly  fool  enough  to  drive  me  to 
downright  desperation.  I  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  whom 
it  was  quite  safe  to  hunt  into  a  corner — he  knew  that,  aud 
wisely  quieted  me  with  proposals  for  the  future. 


THE     V.OMAN    IN     WHITE.  5S3 

I  deserved  some  reward  (he  was  kind  ejiough  to  say)  for 
the  service  I  had  done  him,  and  some  compensation  (he 
was  so  obligmg  as  to  add)  for  what  I  had  suffered.  He 
was  quite  willing — generous  scoundreil — Lo  make  me  a 
handsome  yearly  allowance,  payable  quarterly,  on  two  con- 
ditions. First,  I  was  to  hold  my  tongue— in  my  own  inter- 
ests as  well  as  in  his.  Secondly,  I  was  not  to  stir  away 
from  Welmingham  without  first  letting  him  know,  and 
waiting  until  I  obtained  his  permission.  In  my  own' 
neighborhood,  no  virtuous  female  friends  would  tempt  me 
into  dangerous  gossiping  at  the  tea-table.  In  my  own  neigh- 
borhood, he  would  always  know  where  to  find  me.  A  hard 
condition,  that  second  one — but  I  accepted  it. 

What  else  was  I  to  do.^  I  was  left  helpless,  with  a  pros- 
pect of  a  coming  incumbrance  in  the  shape  of  a  child. 
What  else  was  1  to  do?  Cast  myself  on  the  mercy  of  my 
runaway  idiot  of  a  husband  who  had  raised  the  scandal 
against  me?  1  would  have  died  first.  Besides,  the  allow- 
ance tons  a  handsome  one.  I  had  a  better  income,  a  better 
house  over  my  head,  better  carpets  on  my  floors,  than  half 
the  women  who  turned  up  the  whites  of  their  eyes  at  the 
sight  of  me.  The  dress  of  Virtue  in  our  parts  was  cotton 
print.     I  had  silk. 

So  I  accepted  the  conditions  he  offered  me,  and  made 
the  best  of  them,  and  fought  my  battle  with  my  respecta- 
ble neighbors  on  their  own  ground,  and  won  it  in  course 
of  time — as  you  saw  yourself.  How  I  kept  his  Secret  (and 
mine)  through  all  the  years  that  have  passed  from  that 
time  to  this;  and  whether  my  late  daughter,  Anne,  ever 
really  crept  into  my  confidence,  and  got  the  keeping  of 
the  Secret  too — are  questions,  I  dare  say,  to  which  you  are 
curious  to  find  an  answer.  Well!  my  gratitude  refuses 
you  nothing.  1  will  turn  to  a  fresh  page,  and  give  you 
the  answer,  immediately.  But  you  must  excuse  one  thing 
— you  must  excuse  my  beginning,  Mr.  Hartright,  with  an 
expression  of  surprise  at  the  interest  which  you  appear  to 
have  felt  in  my  late  daughter.  It  is  quite  unaccountable  _ 
to  me.  If  that  interest  makes  you  anxious  for  any  partic- 
ulars of  her  early  life,  I  must  refer  you  to  Mrs.  Clements, 
who  knows  more  of  the  subject  than  I  do.  Pray  under- 
stand that  I  do  not  profess  to  have  been  at  all, over  fond  of 
my  late  daughter.  She  was  a  worry  to  n)e  from  first  to 
last,  with    the  additional  disadvantage  of    being  always 


58i  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

\vt  ak  in  the  head.  You  like  candor,  and  1  hope  this  sat- 
isiies  you. 

Ttiere  is  no  need  to  trouble  3'oi]  with  many  personal  par- 
iiuulars  relating  to  those  past  times,  it  will  be  enough  to 
say  that  I  observed  the  terms  of  the  bargain  on  my  side, 
and  that  1  enjoyed  my  comfortable  income,  in  return,  paid 
quarterly. 

Now  and  then  I  got  away  and  changed  the  scene  for  a 
short  time,  always  asking  leave  of  my  lord  and  master 
first,  and  generally  getting  it.  He  was  not.  as  I  have 
already  told  you,  fool  enough  to  drive  me  too  hard;  and 
he  could  reasonably  rely  on  my  holding  my  tongue,  for 
my  own  sake,  if  not  for  his.  One  of  my  longest  trips  away 
from  home  was  the  trip  1  took  to  Lininieridge,  lo  nurse 
a  half-sister  there,  who  was  dying.  Siie  was  reported  to 
have  saved  money;  and  I  thought  it  as  well  (in  case  any 
accident  happened  to  stop  my  allo«anee)  to  look  after  my 
own  interests  in  that  direction.  As  things  turned  out, 
however,  my  pains  were  all  thrown  away;  and  I  got 
nothing,  because  nothing  was  to  be  had. 

I  had  taken  Anne  to  the  North  with  me;  having  my 
whims  and  fancies,  occasionally,  about  my  child,  and  get- 
ting, at  such  times,  jealous  of  Mrs.  Clements's  influence  over 
her.  I  never  liked  Mrs.  Clements.  She  was  a  poor  empty- 
hiadix!,  spiritless  woman — what  you  call  a  born  drudge 
— and  1  was,  now  and  then,  not  averse  to  plaguing  her 
by  taking  Anne  away.  Not  knowing  what  else  to  do  with 
mv  girl,  while  1  was  nursing  in  Cumberland,  1  put  her  to 
school  at  Limmeridge.  The  lady  of  the  manor,  Mrs. 
Fuirlie  (a  remarkable  plain-looking  woman,  who  had  en- 
trapped one  of  the  handsomest  men  in  England  into  mar- 
rying her),  amused  me  wonderfully,  by  taking  a  violent 
fancy  to  my  girl.  The  consequence  was,  she  learned 
nothing  at  school,  and  was  petted  and  spoiled  at  Limme- 
ridge House.  Among  other  whims  and  fancies  which  they 
taught  her  there,  they  put  some  nonsense  into  her  head 
about  always  wearing  white.  Hating  white  and  liking 
colors  myself,  1  determined  to  take  the  nonsense  out  of 
lier  head  as  soon  as  we  got  home  again. 

Strange  to  say,  my  daughter  resolutely  resisted  me. 
When  she  liad  got;  a  notion  once  fixed  in  her  mind  she  was, 
like  other  half-witted  people,  as  obstinate  as  a  mule  in 
keeping  it.     We  quarreled  finely;  and  Mrs.  Clements  not 


THE    WOWAN"    IN    WHITE.  525 

liking  to  see  it,  I  suppose,  oilered  to  tuke  Atine  away  to 
live  in  London  with  her.  f  should  h;ive  said  Yes,  if  Mrs. 
Clements  had  not  sided  with  my  daughter  about  her  dress- 
ing herself  in  white.  But,  being  determined  she  should 
not  dress  herself  in  white,  and  disliking  Mi's.  Clements 
more  than  eyer  for  taking  part  against  me,  I  said  No,  and 
meant  No,  and  stuck  to  No.  The  consequence  was,  my 
daughter  remained  with  me;  and  the  consequence  of  that, 
in  its  turn,  was  the  first  serious  quarrel  that  happened 
about  the  Secret. 

Th  circumstance  took  place  long  after  the  time  1  have  just 
been  writing  of.  I  had  been  settled  for  years  in  the  new 
town;  and  was  steadily  living  down  my  bad  character, 
and  slowly  gaining  ground  among  the  respectable  inhabit- 
ants. It  helped  me  forward  greatly  toward  this  object,  to 
have  my  daughter  with  me.  Her  harmlessness,  and  her 
fancy  for  dressing  in  white,  excited  a  certain  amount  of 
sympathy.  I  left  off  opposing  her  favorite  whim  on  that 
account,  because  some  of  the  sympathy  was  sure,  in  course 
of  time,  to  fall  to  my  share.  Some  of  it  did  fall.  I  date 
my  getting  a  choice  of  the  two  best  sittings  to  let  in  the 
church,  from  that  time;  and  I  date  the  clergyman's  first 
bow  from  my  getting  the  sittings. 

Well,  being  settled  in  this  way,  1  received  a  letter  one 
morning  from  that  highly  born  gentleman  (now  deceased), 
in  answer  to  one  of  mine,  warning  him,  according  to  agree- 
ment, of  my  wishing  to  leave  the  town,  for  a  little  change 
of  air  and  scene. 

The  ruffianly  side  of  him  must  have  been  uppermost,  I 
suppose,  when  he  got  my  letter — for  he  wrote  back,  refus- 
ing me  in  such  abominably  insolent  language,  that  I  lost 
all  command  over  myself,  and  abused  him,  in  my  daugh- 
ter's presence,  as  "  a  low  impostor  whom  1  could  ruin  for 
life,  if  1  chose  to  open  my  lips  and  let  out  his  secret."  I 
said  no  more  about  him  than  that;  being  brought  to  my 
senses,  as  soon  as  those  words  had  escaped  me,  by  the  sight 
of  my  daughter's  face  looking  eagerly  and  curiously  at 
mine.  1  instantly  ordered  her  out  of  the  room  until  I 
had  composed  myself  again. 

My  sensations  were  not  pleasant,  I  can  tell  you,  when  I 
iame  to  reflect  on  my  own  folly.  Anne  had  been  more 
than  usually  crazy  and  queer  that  year;  and  when  I  thought 
of  the  chance  there  might  be  of  I'er  repeating  my  words 


536  THE    WOMAN"    IK"    WHITE. 

in  the  town,  and  mentioning  7i^^•  name  in  connection  with 
tliem,  if  inquisitive  people  got  hold  of  her,  I  was  finely  ter- 
rified at  the  possible  consequences.  My  worst  fears  for  my- 
self, my  worst  dread  of  what  he  might  do,  led  me  no  further 
than  this.  I  was  quite  unprepared  for  what  really  did 
happen,  only  the  next  day. 

On  that  next  day,  without  any  warning  to  me  to  expect 
him,  he  came  to  the  house. 

His  first  words,  and  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke  them, 
surly  as  it  was,  showed  me  plainly  enough  that  he  had  re- 
pented already  of  his  insolent  answer  to  my  application, 
and  that  he  had  come,  in  a  mighty  bad  temper,  to  try  and 
set  matters  right  again  before  it  was  too  late.  Seeing  my 
daughter  in  the  room  with  me  (I  had  been  afraid  to  let 
her  out  of  my  sight,  after  what  had  happened  the  day  be- 
fore), he  ordered  her  away.  They  neither  of  them  liked 
each  other,  and  he  vented  the  ill-temper  on  lier  which  he 
was  afraid  to  show  to  me. 

"  Leave  us,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  over  his  shoulder. 
She  looked  back  over  her  shoulder,  and  waited,  as  if  she 
didn't  care  to  go.  "  Do  you  hear?'"  he  roared  out;  "  leave 
the  room."  "  Speak  to  me  civilly,"  says  she,  getting  red 
in  the  face.  "  Turn  the  idiot  out,"  says  lie,  looking  my 
way.  She  had  always  had  crazy  notions  of  her  own  about 
her  dignity;  and  that  word  "idiot"  upset  her  in  a  mo- 
ment. Before  1  could  interfere,  she  stepped  up  to  him  in  a 
fine  passion.  "  Beg  my  pardon  directly,"  says  she,  "  or 
ril  make  it  the  worse  for  you.  J '11  let  out  your  secret.  I 
can  ruin  you  for  life,  if  i  choose  to  open  my  lips."  My 
own  wordsl — repeated  exactly  from  what  I  had  said  the 
day  before — repeated,  in  his  presence,  as  if  they  had  come 
from  herself.  He  sat  speechless,  as  white  as  the  paper  I 
had  been  writing  on,  while  I  pushed  her  out  of  the  room. 
When  he  recovered  himself — 

No!  I  am  too  respectable  a  woman  to  mention  what  he 
said  when  he  recovered  himself.  My  pen  is  the  pen  of  a 
member  of  the  rector's  congregation,  and  a  subscriber  to 
the  "  Wednesday  Lectures  on  Justification  by  Faith  " — 
how  can  you  expect  me  to  employ  it  in  writing  bad  lan- 
guage? Suppose,  for  yourself,  the  raging,  swearing  frenzy 
of  the  lowest  ruftian  in  England;  and  lot  us  get  on  to- 
gether, as  fast  as  may  be,  to  the  way  in  which  it  all  ended. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  527 

It  ended  as  you  probably  guess,  by  this  time,  in  his  in- 
sisting on  securing  his  own  safety  by  shutting  her  up. 

1  tried  to  set  things  right.  I  told  him  that  she  had 
merely  repeated,  like  a  parrot,  the  words  she  had  heard 
me  say,  and  that  she  knew  no  particulars' whatever,  be- 
cause I  had  mentioned  none.  1  explained  that  she  had 
affeo^ed  out  of  a  crazy  spite  against  him,  to  know  what  she 
really  did  not  know;  that  she  only  wanted  to  threaten  him 
and  aggravate  him,  for  speaking  to  her  as  he  had  just 
spoken;  and  that  my  unlucky  words  gave  her  just  the 
chance  of  doing  mischief  of  which  she  was  in  search.  I 
referred  him  to  other  queer  ways  of  hers,  and  to  his  own 
experience  of  the  vagaries  of  half-witted  people — it  was  all 
to  no  purpose — lie  would  not  believe  me  onmyoath^he 
was  absolutely  certain  I  had  betrayed  the  whole  Secret. 
In  short,  he  would  hear  of  nothing  but  shutting  her  up. 

Under  these  circumstances,  I  did  my  duty  as  a  mother. 
"  "No  pauper  Asylum,"  I  said;  "  I  won't  have  her  put  in 
a  pauper  Asylum.  A  Private  Establishment,  if  you  please. 
1  have  my  feelings  as  a  mother,  and  my  character  to  pre- 
serve in  the  town;  and  I  will  submit  to  nothing  but  a  Pri- 
vate Establishment,  of  the  sort  which  my  genteel  neighbors 
would  choose  for  afflicted  relatives  of  their  own."  Those 
were  my  words.  It  is  gratifying  to  me  to  reflect  that  I  did 
my  duty.  Though  never  overfond  of  my  late  daughter,  I 
had  a  proper  pride  about  her.  iN'o  pauper  stain — thanks 
to  my  firmness  and  resolution — ever  rested  on  my  child! 

Having  carried  my  point  (which  1  did  more  easily,  in 
consequence  of  the  the  facilities  offered  by  private  Asy- 
lums), 1  could  not  refuse  to  admit  that  there  were  certain 
advantages  gained  by  shutting  her  up.  In  the  first  place, 
she  was  taken  excellent  care  of — being  treated  (as  I  took 
care  to  mention  in  the  town)  on  the  footing  of  a  lady.  In 
the  second  place,  she  was  kept  away  from  Welmingham, 
where  she  might  have  set  people  suspecting  and  inquiring, 
by  repeating  uiy  own  incautious  words. 

The  only  drawback  of  putting  her  under  restraint  was  a 
very  slight  one.  We  merely  turned  her  empty  boast  about 
knowing  the  secret,  into  a  fixed  delusion.  Having  first 
spoken  in  sheer  crazy  spitefulness  against  the  man  who  had 
offended  her,  she  was  cunning  enough  to  see  that  she  had 
seriously  frightened  him,  and  sharp  enough  aftenvain  to 
discover  that  he  was  concerned  in  shutting  her  up.     The 


538  THE    WOMAlSr    IN    WHITE. 

consequence  was,  she  flamed  out  into  a  perfect  frenzy  of 
passion  against  him,  going  to  the  Asylum;  and  the  first 
words  she  said  to  the  nurses,  after  they  had  quieted  her, 
were,  that  she  was  put  in  confinement  for  knowing  his 
secret,  and  that  she  meant  to  open  her  lips  and  ruin  him, 
when  the  right  time  came. 

She  may  have  said  the  same  thing  to  you,  when  you 
thoughtlessly  assisted  her  escape.  She  certainly  said  it  (as 
I  heard  last  summer)  to  the  unfortunate  woman  who  mar- 
ried our  sweet-tempered,  nameless  gentleman,  lately  de- 
ceased. If  either  you  or  that  unlucky  lady  had  questioned 
my  daughter  closely,  and  had  insisted  on  her  explaining, 
what  she  really  meant,  you  would  have  found  her  lose  all 
her  self-importance  suddenly,  and  get  vacant,  and  restless, 
and  confused — you  would  have  discovered  that  I  am  writing 
nothing  here  but  the  plain  truth.  She  knew  that  there 
was  a  secret — she  knew  who  was  connected  with  it — she 
knew  who  would  suffer  by  its  being  known — and,  beyond 
that,  whatever  airs  of  im|>ortance  she  may  have  given  her- 
self, whatever  crazy  boasting  she  may  have  indulged  in 
with    strangers,  she  never  to  her  dying  day  knew  more. 

Have  I  satisfied  your  curiosity?  I  have  taken  pains 
enough  to  satisfy  it  at  any  rate.  There  is  really  nothing 
else  I  have  to  tell  you  about  myself,  or  my  daughter.  My 
worst  responsibilities,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  were  all 
over  when  she  was  secured  in  the  Asylum.  I  had  a  form 
of  letter  relating  to  the  circumstances  under  which  she  was 
shut  up,  given  to  me  to  write,  in  answer  to  one  Miss  Hal- 
combe,  who  was  curious  in  the  matter,  and  who  must  have 
heard  plenty  of  lies  about  me  from  a  certain  tongue  well 
accustomed  to  telling  the  same.  And  1  did  what  I  could 
afterward  to  trace  my  runaway  daughter,  and  prevent  her 
from  doing  mischief,  by  making  inquiries  myself  in  the 
neighborhood  where  she  was  falsely  reported  to  have  been 
seen.  But  these,  and  other  trifles  like  them,  are  of  little 
or  no  interest  to  you  after  what  you  have  heard  already. 

So  far  I  have  written  in  the  friendliest  possible  spirit. 
But  I  can  not  close  this  letter,  without  adding  a  word  here 
of  serious  remonstrance  and  reproof,  addressed  to  yourself. 

In  the  course  of  your  personal  interview  with  me,  you  au- 
daciously referred  to  my  late  daughter's  parentage,  on  the 
AiLher's  side,  as  if  that  parentage  was  a  matter  of  doubt. 
This  was  highly  improper,  and  very  ungeutleman-like  oo 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  539 

your  part!  Jf  we  see  each  other  again,  remember,  if  you 
please,  that  I  will  allow  no  liberties  to  be  taken  with  my 
reputation,  and  that  the  maral  atmosphere  of  VV^elmingham 
(to  use  a  favorite  cx[)ression  of  my  fi-iend  the  rector's)  must 
not  be  tainted  by  loose  conversation  of  any  kind.  If  you 
allow  yourself  to  doubt  that  my  husband  was  Anne's  fatlier, 
you  personally  insult  me  in  the  grossest  manner.  If  you 
have  felt,  and  if  you  still  continue  to  feel,  an  unhallowed 
curiosity  on  this  subject,  I  recommend  you  in  your  own 
interests,  to  clieok  it  at  once  and  forever.  On  I  his  side  of 
the  grave,  Mr.  Hartright,  whatever  may  happen  on  the 
other,  that  curiosity  will  never  be  gratified. 

Perhaps,  after  what  1  have  just  said,  you  will  see  the 
necessity  of  writing  me  an  apology.  Do  so;  audi  will 
willingly  receive  it.  1  will  afterward,  if  your  wishes  point 
to  a  second  interview  with  me,  go  a  step  further,  and  re- 
ceive you.  My  circumstances  only  enable  me  to  invite  you 
to  tea — not  that  they  are  at  all  altered  for  the  worse  by 
what  has  hap[)ened.  I  have  always  lived,  as  I  think  I  told 
you,  well  within  my  income;  and  I  have  saved  enough,  in 
the  last  twenty  years,  to  make  me  quite  comfortable  for  the 
rest  of  my  life.  It  is  not  my  intention  to  leave  Welming- 
ham.  There  are  one  or  two  little  advantages  which  I  have 
still  to  gain  in  the  town.  The  clergymitn  bows  to  me — as 
you  saw.  He  is  married;  and  his  wife  is  not  quite  so  civil. 
I  propose  to  join  the  Dorcas  Society;  and  I  mean  to  make 
the  clergyman's  wife  bow  to  me  next. 

If  you  favor  me  with  your  company,  pray  understand 
that  the  conversation  must  be  entirely  on  general  subjects. 
Any  attempted  reference  to  this  letter  will  be  quite  useless 
— 1  am  determined  not  to  acknowledge  having  written  it. 
The  evidence  has  been  destroyed  in  the  fire,  I  know;  but  I 
think  it  desirable  to  err  on  the  side  of  caution,  nevertheless. 

On  this  account,  no  names  are  mentioned  here,  nor  is  any 
signature  attached  to  these  lines:  the  handwriting  is  dis- 
guised throughout,  and  I  mean  to  deliver  the  letter  myself, 
under  circumstances  which  will  prevent  all  fear  of  its  being 
traced  to  my  house.  You  can  have  no  possible  causa  to 
complain  of  these  precautions,  seeing  that  they  do  not 
affect  the  information  1  here  communicate,  in  considera- 
tion of  the  special  indulgence  which  you  have  deserved  at 
my  hands.  My  hour  for  tea  is  half  past  five,  and  my  but' 
tared  toast  waits  for  nobody. 


530  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 


The  story  continued  ly  Walter  Hartright. 
I. 

Mt  first  impulse,  after  reading  Mrs.  Catherick's  extraor= 
diuary  narrative,  was  lo  destroy  it.  The  hardened,  shame- 
less depravity  of  the  whole  composition,  from  beginning  to 
end — the  atrocious  perversity  of  mind  which  persistently 
associated  me  with  a  calamity  for  which  1  was  in  no  sense 
answerable,  and  with  a  death  which  I  had  risked  my  life  in 
trying  to  avert — so  disgusted  me,  that  1  was  on  the  point 
of  tearing  the  letter,  when  a  consideration  suggested  itself, 
which  warned  me  to  wait  a  little  before  I  destroyed  it. 

This  consideration  wasentiiely  unconnected  with  Sir  Per- 
cival.  The  information  communicated  to  me,  so  far  as  it 
concerned  him,  did  little  more  than  confirm  the  conclu- 
sions at  which  I  had  already  arrived. 

He  had  committed  his  offense  as  I  had  supposed  him  to 
have  committed  it;  and  the  absence  of  all  reference,  on 
Mrs.  Catherick'spart,  to  thedupl  cale  register  at  Knowles- 
bury,  strengthened  my  previous  conviction  that  the  exist- 
ence of  the  book,  and  the  risk  of  detection  which  it  implied, 
must  have  been  necessarily  unknown  to  Sir  Percival.  My 
interest  in  the  question  of  the  forgery  was  now  at  an  end; 
and  my  only  object  in  keeping  the  letter  was  to  make  it  of 
some  future  service  in  clearing  up  the  last  mystery  that 
still  remained  to  baffle  me— the  parentage  of  Anne  Cath- 
erick,  on  the  father's  side.  There  were  one  or  two  sen- 
tences dropped  in  her  mother's  narrative,  which  it  might  be 
useful  to  refer  to  again,  when  matters  of  more  immediate 
importance  allowed  me  leisure  to  search  for  the  missing  evi- 
dence. I  did  not  despair  of  still  finding  that  evidence; 
and  I  had  lost  none  of  my  anxiety  to  discover  it,  for  1  had 
lost  none  of  my  interest  in  tracing  the  father  of  the  poor 
creature  who  now  lay  at  rest  in  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave. 

Accordingly  1  sealed  up  the  letter,  and  put  it  away  care- 
fully in  my  pocket-book,  to  be  referred  to  again  when  the 
time  came. 

The  next  day  was  my  last  in  Hampshire.  When  1  had 
appeared  again  before  the  magistrate  at  Knowlcsbury,  and 
when  I  had  attended  at  the  adjournfifl  Inonast.  1  should  bo 


i  TBK    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  53t 

free  to  return  to  Londou  by  the  afternoon  or  the  evening 
train. 

My  first  errand  in  the  mortiing  was,  as  usual,  to  the  post- 
office.  The  letter  from  Marian  was  there,  but  I  thought, 
when  it  was  handed  to  me,  that  it  felt  unusually  light.  I 
anxiously  opened  the  envelope.  There  was  nothing  inside 
but  a  small  strip  of  paper,  folded  in  two.  The  few  blotted, 
hurriedly  written  lines  which  were  traced  on  it  contained 
thse  words: 

"  Come  back  as  soon  as  you  can.  1  have  been  obliged  to 
move.  Come  to  Gower's  VValk,  Fulham  (number  five).  I 
will  be  on  the  look-out  for  you.  Don't  be  alarmed  about 
us;  we  are  both  safe  and  well.  But  come  back. — Marian." 

Tjie  news  which  those  lines  contained — news  which  I  in- 
stantly associated  with  some  attempted  treachery  on  the 
part  of  Count  Fosco — fairly  overwhelmed  me.  I  stood 
breathless,  with  the  paper  crumpled  up  in  my  hand. 
V/hat  had  happened?  What  subtle  wickedness  had  the 
Count  planned  and  executed  in  my  absence?  A  night  had 
passed  since  Marian's  note  was  written — hours  must  elapse 
still,  before  i  could  get  back  to  them— some  new  disaster 
might  have  happened  already,  of  which  I  was  ignorant. 
And  here,  miles  and  miles  away  from  them,  here  I  must 
remain — held,  doubly  held,  at  the  disposal  of  the  law! 

1  hardly  know  to  what  forgetfulness  of  my  obligations 
anxiety  and  alarm  might  not  have  tempted  me,  but  for  the 
quieting  influence  of  my  faith  in  Marian.  My  absolute 
reliance  on  her  was  the  one  earthly  consideration  which 
helped  me  to  restrain  myself,  and  gave  me  courage  to  wait. 
The  Inquest  was  the  first  of  the  impediments  in  the  way  of 
my  freedom  of  action.  I  attended  it  at  the  appointed  time; 
the  legal  formalities  requiring  my  presence  in  the  room, 
but,  as  it  turned  out,  not  calling  on  me  to  repeat  my  evi- 
dence. This  useless  delay  was  a  hard  trial,  although  I  did 
my  best  to  quiet  my  impatience  by  following  the  course  of 
the  proceedings  as  closely  as  1  could. 

The  London  solicitor  of  the  deceased  (Mr.  Merriman) 
was  among  the  persons  present.  But  he  was  quite  unable 
to  assist  the  objects  of  the  inquiry.  He  could  only  si»»' 
that  he  was  inexpressibly  shocked  and  astonished,  and  tha/" 
he  could  throw  no  light  whatever  on  the  nivstcrious  o:.-- 


532  THE    WOMAN    IK    WHITE. 

cumstances  of  the  case.  At  intervals  during  the  adjourned 
investigation,  he  suggested  questions  which  the  Coroner 
put,  but  which  led  to  no  results.  After  a  patient  inquiry, 
which  lasted  nearly  three  hours,  and  which  exhausted  every 
available  source  of  information,  the  jury  pronounced  the 
eustoniar}'  verdict  in  cases  of  sudden  death  by  accident. 
They  added  to  the  formal  decision  a  statement  that  there 
had  been  no  evidence  to  show  how  the  keys  had  been  ab- 
stracted, how  the  fire  had  been  caused,  or  what  the  purpose 
was  for  which  the  deceased  had  entered  the  vestry.  This 
act  closed  the  proceedings.  The  legal  representative  of  the 
dead  man  was  left  to  provide  for  the  necessities  of  the  in- 
terment, and  the  witnesses  were  free  to  retire.     ^ 

Resolved  not  to  lose  a  minute  in  getting  to  Knowlesbury, 
I  paid  ray  bill  at  the  hotel,  and  hired  a  fly  to  take  me  to 
the  town.  A  gentleman  who  heard  me  give  the  order,  and 
who  saw  that  I  was  going  alone,  informed  me  that  he  lived 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Knowlesbury,  and  asked  if  I  would 
have  any  objection  to  his  getting  home  by  sharing  the  fly 
with  me.     1  accepted  his  proposal  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Our  conversation  during  the  drive  was  naturally  occupied 
by  the  one  absorbing  subject  of  local  interest. 

My  new  acquaintance  had  some  knowledge  of  the  late  Sir 
Percival's  solicitor;  and  he  and  Mr.  Merriman  had  been 
discussing  the  state  of  the  deceased  gentleman's  affairs  and 
the  succession  to  the  property.  Sir  Percival's  embarrass- 
ments were  so  well  known  all  over  the  county  that  his 
solicitor  could  only  make  a  virtue  of  necessity  and  plainly 
acknowledged  them.  He  had  died  without  leaving  a  will, 
and  he  had  no  personal  property  to  b  queath,  even  if  he  had 
made  one;  the  whole  fortune  which  he  had  derived  from  his 
wife  having  been  swallowed  up  by  his  creditors.  The  heir 
to  the  estate  (Sir  Percival  having  left  no  issue)  was  a  son  of 
Sir  Felix  Glyde's  first  cousin — an  officer  in  command  of  an 
East  Indiaman.  He  would  find  his  unexpected  inheritance 
sadly  encumbered;  but  the  property  would  recover  with 
time,  and,  if  "  the  captain  "  was  careful,  he  might  be  a 
rich  man  yet  before  he  died. 

Absorbed  as  1  was  in  the  one  idea  of  getting  to  London, 
this  information  (which  events  proved  to  be  perfectly  cor- 
rect) had  an  interest  of  its  own  to  attract  my  attention. 
I  thought  it  justified  me  in  keeping  secret  my  discovery  of 
Sir  Percival's  fraud.     The  heir  whose  rights  he  had  usurped 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  533 

\ras  the  heir  who  would  now  have  the  estate.  The  income 
from  it,  for  the  last  three-and-tweuty  years,  which  should 
properly  have  been  his,  and  which  the  dead  man  had  squand- 
ered to  the  last  farthing,  was  gone  beyond  recall.  If  I 
spoke,  my  speaking  wi/uld  confer  advantage  on  no  one.  If 
I  kept  the  secret,  my  silence  concealed  the  character  of  the 
man  who  had  cheated  Laura  into  marrying  him.  For  her 
sake,  1  wished  to  conceal  it— for  her  sake  still,  I  tell  this 
story  under  feigned  names. 

I  parted  with  my  chance  companion  at  Knowlesbury, 
and  went  at  once  to  the  town-hall.  As  I  had  anticipated, 
no  one  was  present  to  prosecute  the  case  against  me — the 
necessary  formalities  were  observed — and  I  was  discharged. 
On  leaving  the  court,  a  letter  from  Mr.  Dawson  was  put 
into  my  hand.  It  informed  me  that  he  was  absent  on  pro- 
fessional duty,  and  it  reiterated  the  offer  I  had  already  re- 
ceived from  him  of  any  assistance  which  I  might  require  at 
his  hands.  I  wrote  back,  warmly  acknowledging  my 
obligations  to  his  kindness,  and  apologizing  for  not  express- 
ing my  thanks  personally,  in  consequence  of  my  immediate 
recall,  on  pressing  business,  to  town. 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  speeding  back  to  London  by  the 
express  train. 


IL 

It  was  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  before  I  reached 
Fulham,  aiid  found  my  way  to  Gower's  VV^alk. 

Botn  Laura  and  Marian  came  to  the  door  to  let  me  in. 
I  think  we  had  hardly  known  how  close  the  tie  was  which 
bound  us  three  together,  until  the  evening  came  wliich 
united  us  again.  We  met  as  if  we  had  been  parted  for 
months,  instead  of  for  a  few  days  only.  Marian's  face  wap 
sadly  worn  and  anxious.  I  saw  who  had  known  all  the  dan- 
ger, and  borne  all  the  trouble,  in  my  absence,  the  moment 
I  looked  at  her.  Laura's  brighter  looks  and  better  spirits 
told  me  how  carefully  she  had  been  spared  all  knowledge  of 
the  dreadful  death  at  Welmingham,  and  of  the  true  reason 
for  our  change  of  abode. 

The  stir  of  the  removal  seemed  to  have  cheered  and  in- 
terested her.  She  only  spoke  of  it  as  a  happy  thought  of 
Marian's  to  surpris'j  nu',  on  my  return,  with  a  change  from 
the  close,  noisy  street,  to  the  pleasant  neighborhood  of  trees 


531  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

and  fields,  and  the  river.  She  was  full  of  projects  for  the 
future — of  the  drawings  she  was  to  finish;  of  the  purchasers 
I  had  found  in  the  country,  who  were  to  buy  thtm;  of  thy 
shillings  and  sixpences  she  had  saved,  till  her  purse  was  sj 
heavy  that  she  proudly  asked  me  to  weigh  it  in  my  own 
hand.  The  change  for  the  better  which  had  been  wrought 
in  her,  during  the  few  days  of  my  absence,  was  a  surprise 
to  me  for  which  1  was  quite  unprepared — and  for  all  the 
unspeakable  happiness  of  seeing  it,  I  was  indebted  to  Mari- 
an's courage  and  to  Marian's  love. 

When  Laura  had  left  us,  and  when  we  could  speak  to 
one  another  without  restraint,  I  tried  to  give  some  expres- 
sion to  the  gratitude  and  the  admiration  which  filled  my 
heart.  But  the  generous  creature  would  not  wait  to  hear 
me.  That  sublime  self-forgetfulness  of  women,  which 
yields  so  much  and  asks  so  little,  turiied  all  her  thoughts 
from  herself  to  me. 

"  I  had  only  a  moment  left  before  post-time,"  she  said, 
"  or  I  should  have  written  less  abruptly.  You  look  worn 
and  weary,  Walter — I  am  afraid  my  letter  must  have  seri- 
ously alarmed  you?"' 

"  Only  at  first,"  1  replied.  "  My  mind  was  quieted, 
Marian,  by  my  trust  in  you.  Was  I  right  in  attributing 
this  sudden  change  of  place  to  some  threatened  annoyance 
on  the  part  of  Count  Fosco?" 

"  Perfectly  right,"  she  said.  "  I  saw  him  yesterday; 
and,  worse  than  that,  Walter — I  spoke  to  him." 

"  Spoke  to  him?  Did  he  know  where  we  lived?  Did  he 
come  to  the  house?" 

"  lie  did.  To  the  house — but  not  upstairs.  Laura 
never  saw  him;  Laura  suspects  uothiiig.  I  will  tell  you 
how  it  happened:  the  danger,  1  believe  and  hope,  is  over 
now.  Yesterday  I  was  in  the  sitting-room,  at  our  old 
lodgings.  Laura  was  drawing  at  the  table,  and  I  was  walk- 
ing about  and  setting  things  to  rights.  1  passed  ihi^  win- 
dow, and,  as  I  passed  it,  looKcd  out  into  the  street.  There, 
on  the  opp©site  side  of  the  way,  I  saw  the  Count,  wilh  a 
man  talking  to  him — " 

"  Did  he  notice  you  at  the  window?" 

"  No — at  least,  1  thought  not.  I  was  too  violently  startled 
to  be  quite  sure." 

"  Who  was  the  other  man?     A  stranger?" 

"  Not  a  stranger,  Walter.     As  soon  as  I  could  draw  my 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  535 

breath  again,  I  recognized  hiui.     Tie  was  the  owner  of  the 

Lunatic  Asylum/' 
"  Was  tlie  Count  pointing  out  the  house  to  him?" 
"No;  they  were  talking  together  as  if  they  had  acci- 
dentally met  in  tiie  street.  1  remained  at  the  window  look- 
ing at  them  from  behind  the  curtain.  If  I  had  turned 
round,  and  if  Laura  had  seen  my  face  at  that  moment — 
Thank  God,  she  was  absorbed  over  her  drawing!  They 
Roon  parted.  The  man  from  the  Asylum  went  one  way, 
and  the  Count  the  other.  I  began  to  hope  they  were  in 
the  street  by  chance,  till  I  saw  the  Count  come  back,  stop 
opposite  to  us  again,  take  out  his  card-case  and  pencil,  write 
something,  and  then  cross  the  road  to  the  shop  below  us. 
1  ran  past  Laura  before  she  could  see  me,  and  said  i  had 
forgotten  something  upstairs.  As  soon  as  I  was  out  of  the 
room,  I  went  down  to  the  first  landing  and  waited — I  was 
determined  to  stop  him  if  he  tried  to  come  upstairs.  He 
made  no  such  attempt.  The  girl  from  the  shop  came 
through  the  door  into  the  passage,  with  his  card  in  her 
hand — a  large  gilt  card,  with  his  name,  and  a  coronet  above 
it,  and  these  lines  underneath  in  pencil:  '  Dear  lady  '  (yes! 
the  villain  could  address  me  in  that  way  still) — '  dear  lady, 
one  word,  1  implore  you,  on  a  matter  serious  to  us  both.' 
If  one  can  think  at  all  in  serious  difficulties,  one  thinks 
quick.  1  felt  directly  that  it  might  be  a  fatal  mistake  to 
leave  myself  and  to  leave  you  in  the  dark,  where  such  a 
man  as  the  Count  was  concerned.  I  felt  that  the  doubt 
of  what  he  might  do  in  your  absence  would  be  ten  times 
more  trying  to  me  if  I  declined  to  see  him  than  if  I  con- 
sented. '  Ask  the  gentleman  to  wait  in  the  shop,'  I  said. 
'  I  will  be  with  him  in  a  moment.'  1  ran  upstairs  for  my 
bonnet,  being  determined  not  to  let  him  speak  to  me  in- 
doors. I  knew  his  deep,  ringing  voice,  and  1  was  afraid 
Laura  might  hear  it,  even  in  the  shop.  In  less  than  a 
minute  I  was  down  again  in  the  passage,  and  had  opened 
the  door  into  the  street.  He  came  round  to  meet  me  from 
the  shop.  There  he  was,  in  deep  mourning,  with  his 
smooth  bow  and  his  deadly  smile,  and  some  idle  boys  and 
women  near  him,  staring  at  his  great  size,  his  fine  black 
clothes,  and  his  large  cane  with  the  gold  knob  to  it.  All 
the  horrible  time  at  Blackwater  came  back  to  me  the  mo- 
ment I  set  eyes  on  him.  All  the  old  loathing  crept  and 
crawled  through  me  when  he  took  ofi  his  hat  with  a  tlour- 


536  THE    WOTilAN    IN    WHITB. 

ish  and  spoke  to  me,  as  if  we  had  parted  on  the  friendliest 
terms  hardly  a  day  since." 

"  You  remember  what  he  said?" 

"  I  can't  repeat  it,  Walter.  You  shall  know  directly 
what  he  said  about  yoic — but  I  can't  repeat  what  he  said 
to  vie.  It  was  worse  than  the  polite  insolence  of  his  let- 
\qv.  My  bands  tingled  to  strike  him,  as  if  1  had  been  a 
man!  I  only  kept  them  quiet  by  tearing  his  card  to  pieces 
under  my  shawl.  Without  saying  a  word,  on  my  side,  I 
walked  away  from  the  house  (for  fear  of  Laura  seeing  us), 
and  he  followed,  protesting  softly  all  the  way.  In  the  first 
by-street  I  turned,  and  asked  him  what  he  wanted  with  me. 
He  wanted  two  things.  First,  if  I  had  no  objection,  to  ex- 
press his  sentiments.  I  declined  to  hear  them.  Secondly, 
to  repeat  the  warning  in  his  letter.  1  asked,  what  occasion 
there  was  for  repeating  it.  He  bowed  and  smiled,  and  said 
he  would  explain.  The  explanation  exactly  confirmed  the 
fears  I  expressed  before  you  left  us.  I  told  you,  if  you  re- 
member, that  Sir  Percival  would  be  too  headstrong  to  take 
his  friend's  advice  where  you  were  concerned;  and  that 
there  was  no  danger  to  be  dreaded  from  the  Count  till  his 
own  interests  were  threatened,  and  he  was  roused  into  act- 
ing for  himself." 

*'  1  recollect,  Marian." 

"  Well;  so  it  has  really  turned  out.  The  Count  offered 
his  advice,  but  it  was  refused.  Sir  Percival  would  only 
take  counsel  of  his  own  violence,  his  own  obstinacy,  and  his 
own  hatred  of  you.  The  Count  let  him  have  his  way;  first 
privately  ascertaining,  in  case  of  his  own  interests  being 
threatened  next,  where  we  lived.  You  were  followed, 
Walter,  on  returning,  here  after  your  first  journey  to 
Hampshire — by  the  lawyer's  men  for  some  distance  from 
the  railway,  and  by  the  Count  himself  to  the  door  of  the 
house.  How  he  contrived  to  escape  being  seen  by  you,  he 
did  not  tell  me;  but  he  found  us  out  on  that  occasion,  and 
in  that  way.  Havnig  made  the  discovery,  he  took  no  ad- 
vantage of  it  till  the  news  reached  him  of  Sir  Percival's 
death — and  then,  as  1  told  you,  he  acted  for  himself,  be- 
cause he  believed  you  would  next  proceed  against  the  dead 
man's  partner  in  the  conspiracy.  He  at  once  made  his  ar- 
rangements to  meet  the  owner  of  the  Asylum  in  London, 
and  to  take  him  to  the  place  whore  his  runaway  pafieiit  was 
bidden;    believing  that  the   results,   whichever  way  ihey 


THE     WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  537 

ended,  would  be  to  involve  you  in  interminable  legal  dis- 
putes and  diMicuIties,  and  to  tie  your  hands  for  all  purposes 
of  offense,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned.  That  was  his  pur^ 
pose,  on  his  own  confession  to  me.  The  only  consideration 
which  made  liini  hesitate  at  the  last  moment — " 

"  Yes?" 

"  It  is  hard  to  acknowledge  it,  Walter — and  yet  1  must. 
/  was  the  only  consideration.  No  words  can  say  how  de- 
graded I  feel  in  my  own  estimation  when  1  think  of  it — but 
the  one  weak  point  in  that  man's  iron  character  is  the  hor- 
rible admiration  he  feels  for  me.  I  have  tried,  for  the  sake 
of  my  own  self-respect,  to  disbelieve  it  as  long  as  I  could; 
but  his  looks,  his  actions,  force  on  me  the  shameful  convic- 
ton  of  the  truth.  The  eyes  of  that  monster  of  wickedness 
muistened  while  he  was  speaking  to  me — they  did,  Wal- 
ter! He  declared  that  at  the  moment  of  pointing  out  the 
house  to  the  doctor  he  thought  of  my  misery  if  I  was  sepa- 
rated from  Laura,  of  my  responsibility  if  I  was  called  on 
to  answer  for  etfecting  her  escape — and  he  risked  the  worst 
that  you  could  do  to  him  the  second  time,  for  i)iy  sake. 
All  he  asked  was  that  I  would  remember  the  sacriuce,  and 
restrain  your  rashness,  in  my  own  interests — interests  which 
he  might  never  be  able  to  consult  again.  I  made  no  such 
bargain  with  him;  I  would  have  died  first.  But  believe 
him  or  not — whether  it  is  true  or  false  that  he  sent  the 
doctor  away  with  an  excuse — one  thing  is  certain,  I  saw  the 
man  leave  him,  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  our  win- 
dow, or  even  at  our  side  of  the  way." 

"  I  believe  it,  Marian.  The  best  men  are  not  consistent 
in  good — why  should  the  worst  men  be  consistent  in  evil? 
At  the  same  time,  1  suspect  him  of  merely  attempting  to 
frighten  you  by  threatening  what  he  can  not  really  do.  I 
doubt  his  power  of  annoying  us,  by  means  of  the  owner  of 
the  Asylum,  now  that  Sir  Percival  is  dead,  and  Mrs.  Cath- 
erick  is  free  from  all  control.  But  let  me  hear  more. 
What  did  the  Count  say  of  me?" 

"  He  spoke  last  of  you.  His  eyes  brightened  and  hard- 
ened, and  his  manner  changed  to  what  I  remember  it,  in 
past  times — to  that  mixture  of  pitiless  resolution  and 
mountebank  mockery  which  makes  it  so  impossible  to 
fathom  him.  '  Warn  Mr.  Hartright!'  he  said,  in  his  lofti- 
est manner.  '  He  has  a  ma?i  of  brains  to  deal  with,  a  man 
who  snaps  his  big  fingers  at  the  laws  and  conventions  of 


538  THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

society,  when  he  measures  himself  with  me.  If  my  lamented 
friend  had  taken  my  advice,  the  business  of  the  inquest 
would  have  been  with  the  body  of  Mr.  Hartright.  But  my 
lamented  friend  was  obstinate.  See!  1  mourn  his  loss — 
inwardly  in  my  soul;  out^vardly  on  my  hat.  This  trivial 
crape  expresses  sensibilities  which  I  summon  Mr.  Hartright 
to  respect.  They  may  be  transformed  to  immeasurable 
enmities,  if  he  ventures  to  disturb  them.  Let  him  be  con- 
tent with  what  he  has  got — with  what  I  leave  unmolested, 
for  your  sake,  to  him  and  to  you.  Say  to  him  (with  my 
compliments),  if  he  stirs  me,  he  has  Fosco  to  deal  with. 
In  the  English  of  (he  Popular  Tongue,  I  inform  him — 
Fosco  sticks  at  nothing!  Dear  lady,  good-morning."  His 
cold  gray  eyes  settled  on  my  face — he  took  off  his  hat 
solemnly — bowed,  bare-headed — and  left  me." 

"  Without  returning?  without  saying  more  last  words?" 
"  He  turned  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  waved  his 
hand,  and  then  struck  it  theatrically  on  his  breast.  1  lost 
sight  of  him  after  that.  He  disappeared  in  the  opposite 
direction  to  our  house,  and  I  ran  back  to  Laura.  Before 
I  was  in-doors  again,  1  had  made  up  my  mind  that  we  must 
go.  The  house  (especially  in  your  absence)  was  a  place  of 
danger  instead  of  a  place  of  safety,  now  that  the  Count  had 
discovered  it.  If  I  could  have  felt  certain  of  your  return, 
I  should  have  risked  waiting  till  you  came  back.  But  I 
was  certain  of  nothing,  and  1  acted  at  once  on  my  own  im- 
pulse. You  had  spoken,  before  leaving  us,  of  moving  into 
a  quieter  neighborhood  and  purer  air,  for  the  sake  of 
Laura's  health.  1  had  only  to  remind  her  of  that,  and  to 
suggest  surprising  you  and  saving  you  trouble  by  managing 
the  move  in  your  absence,  to  make  her  quite  as  anxious  for 
the  change  as  I  was.  She  helped  me  to  pack  up  your 
things — and  she  has  arranged  them  all  for  you  in  your  new 
working-room  here." 
,     "  What  made  you  think  of  coming  to  this  place?" 

"  My  ignorance  of  other  Icalities  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Loudon.  I  felt  the  necessity  of  getting  as  far  away  as  pos- 
sible from  our  old  lodgings;  and  1  knew  something  of  Ful- 
ham  \)ecause  I  had  once  been  at  school  there.  J  dispatched 
a  messenger  with  a  note,  on  the  chance  that  the  school 
might  still  be  in  existence.  It  was  in  existence;  the  daugh- 
ters of  my  old  mistress  were  carrying  it  on  for  ht-:-;  and 
they  engaged  this  place  from  the  instructions  I  had  sent. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITK.  539 

It  was  just  post-time  when  the  messenger  returned  to  ma 
with  the  address  of  the  house.  We  moved  after  dark — we 
came  here  quite  unobserved.  Iluve  I  done  right,  Walter? 
Have  I  justified  your  trust  in  me?" 

I  answered  her  warmly  and  gratefully,  as  1  really  felt. 
But  the  anxious  look  still  remained  on  her  face  while  I  was 
speaking;  and  the  first  question  she  asked,  when  1  had 
done,  related  to  Count  Fosco. 

I  saw  that  she  was  thinking  of  him  now  with  a  changed 
mind.  No  fresh  outbreak  of  anger  against  him,  no  new 
appeal  to  me  to  hasten  the  day  of  reckoning,  escaped  ber. 
Her  conviction  that  the  man's  hateful  admiration  of  her- 
self was  really  sincere,  seemed  to  have  increased  a  hundred- 
fold her  distrust  of  his  unfathomable  cunning,  her  inborn 
dread  of  the  wicked  energy  and  vigilance  of  all  his  facul- 
ties. Her  voice  fell  low,  her  manner  was  hesitating,  her 
eyes  searched  into  mine  with  an  eager  fear,  when  she  asked 
me  what  I  thought  of  his  message,  ^.nd  what  I  meant  to  do 
next,  after  hearing  it. 

"  Not  many  weeks  have  passed,  Marian,"  •'  answered, 
"  since  my  interview  with  Mr.  Kyrle,  When  he  and  I 
parted,  the  last  words  I  said  to  him  about  Laura  were 
these:  '  Her  uncle's  house  shall  open  to  receive  her,  in  the 
presence  of  every  soul  who  followed  the  false  funeral  to  the 
grave;  the  lie  that  records  her  death  shall  be  publicly  erased 
from  the  tombstone  by  the  authority  of  the  head  of  the 
family;  and  the  two  men  who  have  wronged  her  shall  an- 
swer for  their  crime  to  me,  though  the  justice  that  sits  in 
tribunals  is  powerless  to  pursue  them.'  One  of  those  men 
is  beyond  mortal  reach.  The  other  remains — and  my  reso- 
lution remains." 

Her  eyes  lighted  up;  her  color  rose.  She  said  nothing; 
but  1  saw  all  her  sympathies  gathering  to  mine,  in  her  face. 

"  1  don't  disguise  from  myself,  or  from  you,"  I  went 
on,  "  that  the  prospect  before  us  is  more  than  doubtful. 
The  risks  we  have  run  already  are,  it  may  be,  trifles,  com- 
pared with  the  risks  that  threaten  us  in  the  future — but 
the  venture  shall  be  tried,  Marian,  fur  all  that.  I  am  not 
rash  enough  to  measure  myself  against  such  a  man  as  the 
Count,  before  I  am  well  prepared  for  him.  I  have  learned 
patience;  I  can  wait  my  time.  Let  him  believe  that  his 
message  has  produced  its  ellect;  let  him  know  nothing  of 
us,  and  hear  nothing  of   us;  let   us  give  him  full  time  to 


540  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

fetil  secure — his  own  boastful  nature,  unless  I  seriously  mis- 
take him,  will  hasten  that  result.  This  is  one  reason  for 
waiting;  but  there  is  another  more  important  still.  My 
position,  Marian,  toward  you  and  toward  Laura  ought  to 
be  a  stronger  one  tiian  it  is  now,  before  1  try  our  last 
chance." 

She  leaned  near  to  me  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  IIow  can  it  be  stronger?'^  she  asked. 

"  I  win  tell  you,"  1  replied,  "  when  the  time  comes.  It 
has  not  come  yet:  it  may  never  come  at  all.  I  may  be 
silent  about  it  to  Laura  forever — I  must  be  silent  now,  even 
to  you,  till  1  see  for  myself  that  1  can  harmlessly  and  hon- 
orably speak.  Let  us  leave  that  subject.  There  is  another 
which  has  more  pressing  claims  on  our  attention.  You 
have  kept  Laura,  mercifully  kept  her,  in  ignorance  of  her 
husband's  death — " 

"  Oh,  Walter,  surely  it  must  be  long  vet  before  we  tell 
her  of  it?" 

"  No,  Marian.  Better  that  you  should  reveal  it  to  her 
now,  than  that  accident,  which  no  one  can  guard  against, 
should  reveal  it  to  her  at  some  future  time.  Spare  her  all 
the  details — break  it  to  her  very  tenderly — but  tell  her  that 
he  is  dead." 

"  You  have  a  reason,  Walter,  for  wishing  her  to  know  of 
her  husband's  death  besides  the  reason  you  have  just  men- 
tioned?" 

"Ihave." 

"  A  reason  connected  with  that  subject  which  must  not 
be  mentioned  between  us  yet? — which  may  never  be  men- 
tioned to  Laura  at  all?" 

She  dwelt  on  the  last  words  meaningly.  When  I  an- 
swered her  in  the  affirmative,  I  dwelt  on  them  too. 

Her  face  grew  pale.  For  a  while  she  looked  at  me  with 
a  sad,  hesitating  interest.  An  unaccustomed  tenderness 
trembled  in  iier  dark  eyes  and  softened  her  firm  lips,  as  she 
glanced  aside  at  the  empty  chair  in  which  the  dear  com- 
panion of  all  our  joys  and  sorrows  had  been  sitting. 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  she  said.  "  I  think  I  owe  it  to 
her  and  to  you,  Walter,  to  tell  her  of  her  husband's  death." 

She  sighed,  and  held  my  hand  fast  for  a  moment — then 
dropped  it  abi'uptly,  and  Wti  the  room.  On  the  next  day 
Laura  ktiew  that  iii-  death  had  released  her,  and  that  the 
eiror  and  the  calamity  of  her  life  lay  buried  in  his  tomb. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  541 

His  name  was  mentioned  among  us  no  more.  Thence- 
forward wo  shrunk  from  the  slightest  approach  to  the  sub- 
ject of  his  death;  and,  in  the  same  scrupulous  manner, 
Marian  and  I  avoided  all  further  reference  to  that  other 
subject,  which,  by  her  consent  and  mine,  was  not  to  be 
mentioned  between  us  yet.  It  was  not  the  less  present  to 
our  minds — it  was  rather  kept  alive  in  them  by  the  restraint 
which  we  had  imposed  on  ourselves.  We  both  watched 
Laura  more  anxiously  (han  ever;  sometimes  waiting  and 
hoping,  sometimes  waiting  and  fearing,  till  the  time  came. 

By  degrees  we  returned   to  our  accustomed    way  of  life. 

I  resumed  the  daily  work  which  had  been  suspended  dur- 
ing my  absence  in  Hampshire.  Our  new  lodgings  cost  us 
more  than  the  smaller  and  less  convenient  rooms  which  we 
had  left;  and  the  claim  thus  implied  on  my  increased  ex- 
ertions was  strengthened  by  the  doubtfulness  of  our  future 
prospects.  Emergencies  might  yet  happen  which  would 
exhaust  our  little  fund  at  the  banker's;  and  the  work  of 
my  hands  might  be,  ultimately,  all  we  had  to  look  to  for 
support.  More  permanent  and  more  lucrative  employ- 
ment than  had  yet  been  offered  to  me  was  a  necessity  of 
our  position — a  necessity  for  which  I  now  diligei;l]y  set 
myself  to  provide. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  interval  of  rest  and  se- 
clusion of  which  I  am  now  writing  entirely  suspended,  on 
my  part,  all  pursuit  of  the  one  absorbing  purpose  with 
which  my  thoughts  and  actions  are  associated  in  these  pages. 
That  purpose  was,  for  months  and  months  yet,  never  to  re- 
lax its  claims  on  me.  The  slow  ripening  of  it  still  left  me 
a  measure  of  precaution  to  take,  an  obligation  of  gratitude 
to  perform,  and  a  doubtful  question  to  solve. 

The  measure  of  precaution  related,  necessarily,  to  the 
Count.  It  was  of  the  last  importance  to  ascertain,  if  pos- 
sible, whether  his  plans  committed  him  to  remaining  in 
England — or,  in  other  words,  to  remaining  within  my 
reach.  I  contrived  to  set  this  doubt  at  rest  by  very  simple 
means.  His  address  in  St.  John's  Wood  being  known  to 
me,  I  inquired  in  the  neighborhood;  and  having  found  out 
the  agent  who  had  the  disposal  of  the  furnished  house  in 
which  he  lived,  1  asked  if  number  five.  Poorest  Knad,  was 
likely  to  be  let  within  a  reasonable  time.  The  reply  was  in 
the  negative.  I  was  informed  that  the  foreign  gentleman 
thtn  residing  in  the  house  liad  renewed  his  term  of  occupa- 


543  THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

tion  for  another  six  months,  and  would  remain  in  posses- 
sion until  the  end  of  June  in  the  following  year.  We  were 
then  at  the  beginning  of  December  only.  I  left  the  agent 
with  my  mind  relieved  from  all  present  fear  of  the  Count's 
escaping  me. 

The  obligation  1  had  to  perform  took  me  once  more  into 
the  presence  of  Mrs.  Clements.  1  had  promised  to  return, 
and  to  confide  to  her  those  particulars  re.lating  to  the  death 
and  burial  of  Anne  Catherick,  which  1  had  been  obliged  to 
withhold  at  our  first  interview.  Changed  as  circiim&laiices 
now  were,  there  was  no  hinderance  to  my  trusting  the  good 
woman  with  as  much  of  the  story  of  the  conspiracy  as  it 
was  necessary  to  tell.  I  had  every  reason  that  synipulhy 
and  friendly  feeling  could  suggest  to  urge  on  me  the  tpeedy 
performance  of  my  promise,  and  I  did  conscientiously  and 
carefully  perform  it.  There  is  no  need  to  burden  these 
pages  with  any  statement  of  what  passed  at  the  interview. 
It  will  be  more  to  the  purpose  to  say  that  the  interview  it- 
self necessarily  brought  to  my  mind  the  one  doubtful  ques- 
tion still  remaining  to  be  solved — the  question  of  Anne 
Oatherick's  parentage  on  the  father's  side. 

A  multitude  of  small  considerations  in  connection  with 
this  subject— trifling  enough  in  themselves,  but  strikingly 
important  when  massed  together — had  latterly  led  my 
mind  to  a  conclusion  which  I  resolved  to  verify.  1  obtained 
Marian's  permission  to  write  to  Major  Donthorne,  of  Var- 
neck  Hall  (where  Mrs.  Catherick  had  lived  in  service  for 
some  years  previous  to  her  marriage),  to  ask  him  certain 
questions.  1  made  the  inquiries  in  Marian's  name,  and 
described  them  as  relating  to  matters  of  personal  interest 
in  her  family,  which  might  explain  and  excuse  my  appli- 
cation. When  I  wrote  the  letter,  1  had  no  certain  knowl- 
edge that  Major  Donthorne  was  still  alive;  1  dispatched  it 
on  the  chance  that  he  might  be  living,  and  able  and  willing 
to  reply. 

After  a  lapse  of  two  days,  proof  came,  in  the  shape  of  a 
letter,  that  the  Major  was  living,  and  that  he  w^s  ready  to 
help  us. 

The  idea  in  my  mind  when  1  wrote  to  him,  and  the  nat- 
ure of  my  inquiries,  will  be  easily  inferred  from  his  reply. 
His  letter  answered  my  questions,  by  communicating  these 
important  facts: 

In  the  first  place,  "  the  late  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  of  Black- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  543 

water  Park,"  had  never  set  foot  in  Varueck  Hall.  The 
deceased  gentleman  was  a  total  stranger  to  Major  Dou- 
thorne,  and  to  all  his  family. 

In  the  second  place,  "  the  late  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie,  of 
Limmeridge  House,"  had  been,  in  his  younger  days,  the 
intimate  friend  and  constant  guest  of  Major  Donthorne. 
Having  refreshed  his  memory  by  looking  back  to  old  let- 
ters and  other  papers,  the  Major  was  in  a  position  to  say 
positively,  that  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  was  staying  at  Varneck 
Hall  in  the  month  of  August,  eigliteen  hundred  and 
twenty-six,  and  that  he  remained  there  for  the  shooting  dur- 
ing the  month  of  September  and  part  of  October  following. 
He  then  left,  to  the  best  of  the  Major's  belief,  for  Scot- 
land, and  did  not  return  to  Varneck  Hall  till  after  a  lapse 
of  time,  when  he  re-appeared  in  the  character  of  a  newly 
married  man. 

Taken  by  itself,  this  statement  was  perhaps,  of  little 
positive  value — but,  taken  in  connection  with  certain  facts, 
every  one  of  which  either  Marian  or  I  knew  to  be  true,  it 
suggested  one  plain  conclusion  that  was,  to  our  minds,  ir- 
resistible. 

Knowing,  now,  that  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  had  been  at  Var- 
neck Hall  in  the  autum  of  eighteen  hundred  and  twenty- 
six,  and  that  Mrs.  Calherick  had  been  living  there  m  serv- 
ice at  the  same  time,  we  knew  also:  first  that  Anne  had 
been,  born  in  June,  eighteen  hundred  and  twenty-seven; 
secondly,  that  she  had  always  presented  an  extraordinary 
personal  resemblance  to  Laura;  and  thirdly,  that  Laura 
herself  was  strikingly  like  her  father.  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie 
had  been  one  of  the  notoriously  handsome  men  of  his  time. 
In  disposition  entirely  unlike  his  brother  Frederick,  he  was 
the  spoiled  darling  of  society,  especially  of  the  women — an 
easy,  light-hearted,  impulsive,  affectionate  man;  generous 
t)  a  fault;  constitutionally  lax  in  his  principles,  and  no- 
to  iously  thoughtless  of  moral  obligations  where  women 
wjre  concerned.  Such  were  the  facts  we  knew;  such  was 
the  character  of  the  man.  Surely,  the  plain  inference  that 
follows  needs  no  pointing  out? 

Read  by  the  new  light  which  had  now  broken  upon  me, 
even  Mrs.  Catherick's  letter,  in  despite  of  herself,  rendered 
its  mite  of  assistance  toward  strengthening  the  conclusion 
at  which  I  had  arrived.  She  had  described  Mrs.  Fairlie  (in 
writing  to  me)  as  "plain-looking,"  and  as  hak'ing  "  eu- 


544  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

trapped  the  handsomest  man  in  England  into  marrying 
her."  BoLli  assertions  were  gratuitously  made,  and  boih 
wnre  false.  Jealous  dislike  (which,  in  such  a  woman  as 
Mrs.  Catherick,  would  express  itself  in  petty  malice  rather 
than  not  express  itself  at  all)  appeared  to  me  to  be  the 
only  assignable  cause  for  the  peculiar  insolence  of  her 
reference  to  Mrs,  Fairlie,  under  circums'^auces  which  did 
not  necessitate  any  reference  at  all. 

The  mention  here  of  Mrs.  Fairlie's  name  i^iaturally  sug- 
gests one  other  question.  Did  she  ever  suspect  whose  child 
the  little  girl  brought  to  her  at  Limmeridge  might  be? 

Marian's  testimony  was  positive  on  this  point.  Mrs.  Fair» 
lie's  letter  to  her  husband,  which  had  been  read  to  me  in 
former  days — the  letter  describing  Anne's  resemblance  to 
Laura,  and  acknowledging  her  affectionate  interest  in  the 
iittle  stranger — had  been  written,  beyond  all  question,  in 
perfect  innocence  of  heart.  It  even  seemed  doubtful,  on 
consideration,  where  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  himself  had  been 
nearer  than  his  wife  to  any  suspicion  of  the  truth.  The 
disgracefully  deceitful  circumstances  under  which  Mrs. 
Catherick  had  married,  the  purpose  of  concealment  which 
the  marriage  was  intended  to  answer,  might  well  keep  her 
silent  for  caution's  sake,  perhaps  for  her  own  pride's  sake 
also — even  assuming  that  she  had  the  means,  in  his  ab- 
sence, of  communicating  with  the  father  of  her  unborn 
child. 

As  this  surmise  floated  through  my  mind,  there  rose  on 
my  memory  the  remembrance  of  the  Scripture  denuncia- 
tion which  we  have  all  thought  of,  in  our  time,  with  won- 
der and  with  awe:  "  The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be  visited 
on  the  children."  But  for  the  fatal  resemblance  between 
the  two  daughters  of  one  father  the  conspiracy  of  which 
Anne  had  been  the  innocent  instrument  and  Laura  the  in- 
nocent victim,  could  never  have  been  planned.  With  what 
unerring  and  terrible  directness  the  long  chain  of  circum- 
stances led  down  from  the  thoughtless  wrong  committed 
by  the  father  to  the  heartless  injury  inflicted  on  the  child! 

These  thoughts  came  to  me,  and  others  with  them,  which 
drew  my  mind  away  to  the  little  Cumberland  church-yard 
where  Anne  Catherick  now  lay  buried.  1  thought  of  the 
by-gone  days  when  I  had  met  her  by  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave, 
and  met  her  for  the  last  time.  I  th aught  of  hrr  poor  help- 
less hands  beating  on  the  tombstone,  and  her  weary,  yearn- 


THK    AVOMAN    IN     WHITE.  5rl5 

fhg  words,  murniurei]  to  the  dead  reraaius  of  her  protect- 
ress and  her  friend.  "  Oh,  if  1  could  die,  and  be  hidden 
and  at  rest  with  you  !"  Little  more  than  a  year  had  passed 
since  she  breathed  that  wish;  and  how  inscrutably,  how 
awfully,  it  had  been  fufilled!  The  words  she  had  spoken 
to  Laura  by  the  shores  of  the  lake,  the  very  words  had 
now  come  true.  "  Oh,  if  I  could  only  be  buried  with  your 
mother!  If  I  could  only  wake  at  her  side  when  the  angel's 
trumpet  sounds,  and  the  graves  give  up  their  dead  at  the 
resurrection!"  Through  what  mortal  crime  and  horror, 
through  what  darkest  windings  ol  the  way  down  to  Death, 
the  lost  creature  had  wandered  in  God's  leading  to  the  last 
home  that,  living,  she  never  hoped  to  reach!  In  that  sacred 
rest  I  leave  her — in  that  dread  companionship  let  her  re- 
main undisturbed. 

So  the  ghostly  figure  which  has  haunted  these  pages  as  it 
haunted  my  life,  goes  down  into  the  impenetrable  Gloom. 
Like  a  Shadow  she  first  came  to  me,  in  the  loneliness  of  the 
night.  Like  a  Shadow  she  passes  away,  in  the  loneliness 
of  the  dead. 


in. 


Four  months  elapsed.  April  came— the  month  of 
spring;  the  month  of  change. 

The  course  of  Time  had  flowed  through  the  interval  since 
the  winter,  peacefully  and  happily  in  our  new  home.  1 
had  turned  my  long  leisure  to  good  account;  had  largely 
increased  my  sources  of  employment;  and  had  placid  our 
means  of  subsistence  on  surer  grounds.  Freed  from  the 
suspense  and  the  anxiety  which  had  tried  her  so  sorely,  and 
hung  over  her  so  long,  Marian's  spirits  rallied;  and  her 
natural  energy  of  character  began  to  assert  itself  again, 
with  something,  if  not  all,  of  the  freedom  and  the  vigor  of 
lormer  times. 

More  pliable  under  change  than  her  sister,  Laura  showed 
more  plainly  the  progress  made  by  the  healing  influences 
of  her  new  life.  The  worn  and  wasted  look  which  had 
prematurely  aged  her  face  was  fast  leaving  it;  and  the  ex- 
pression which  had  been  the  first  of  its  charms  in  past  days 
was  the  first  of  its  beauties  that  now  returned.  My  closiist 
18 


546  THE    WOMAK    IN"    WHITE. 

obser\ration  of  her  detected  but  one  serious  result  of  the 
conspiracy  which  had  once  threatened  her  reason  and  her 
life.  Her  memory  of  events,  from  the  period  of  her  leav- 
ing Blackvvater  Park  to  the  period  of  our  meeting  in  the 
burial-ground  of  Limmeridge  Church,  was  lost  beyond  all 
hope  of  recovery.  At  the  slightest  reference  to  that  time, 
slie  changed  and  trembled  still;  her  words  became  con- 
fused; her  memory  wandered  and  lost  itself  as  helplessly  as 
ever.  Here,  and  here  onh^  the  traces  of  the  past  lay  deep 
— too  deep  to  be  effaced. 

In  all  else  she  was  now  so  far  on  the  way  to  recovery, 
that,  on  her  best  and  brightest  days,  she  sometimes  looked 
and  spoke  like  the  Laura  of  old  times.  The  happy  change 
wrought  its  natural  result  in  us  both.  From  their  long 
slumber,  on  her  side  and  on  mine,  those  imperishable 
memories  of  our  past  life  in  Cumberland  now  awoke,  which 
were  one  and  all  alike,  the  memories  of  our  love. 

Gradually  and  insensibly  our  daily  relations  toward  each 
other  became  constrained.  The  fond  words  which  1  had 
spoken  to  her  so  naturally,  in  the  days  of  her  sorrow  and 
her  suffering,  faltered  strangely  on  my  lips.  In  the  time 
when  my  dread  of  losing  her  was  most  present  to  my 
mind,  I  had  always  kissed  her  when  she  left  me  at  night, 
and  when  she  met  me  in  the  morning.  The  kiss  seemed 
now  to  have  dropped  between  us — to  be  lost  out  of  our 
lives.  Our  hands  began  to  tremble  again  when  they  met. 
We  hardly  ever  loolied  long  at  one  another  out  of  Marian's 
presence.  The  talk  often  flagged  between  us  when  we  were 
alone.  When  1  touched  her  by  acvjident,  1  felt  my  heart 
beating  fast,  as  it  used  to  beat  at  Limmeridge  House;  1 
saw  the  lovely  answering  flush  growing  again  in  her  cheeks, 
as  if  we  were  back  among  the  Cumberland  Hills,  in  our 
past  characters  of  master  and  pupil  once  more.  She  had 
long  intervals  of  silence  and  thonghtfulness,  and  denied  she 
had  been  thinking  when  Marian  asked  her  the  question.  1 
surprised  myself  one  day,  neglecting  my  work,  to  dream 
over  the  little  water-color  portrait  of  her  which  I  had  taken 
in  the  summer-house  where  we  first  met — just  as  I  used  to 
neglect  Mr.  Fairlie's,  drawijigs,  to  dream  over  the  same 
likeness,  when  it  was  newly  finished  in  the  by-gone  time. 
Changed  as  all  the  circumstances  now  were,  our  position 
toward  each  other  in  the  golden  days  of  our  first  compan. 
iouship  seeiued  to  be  revived  with  the  revival  of  our  love. 


THE    AVOMAKT    IN     WHITE.  547 

It  was  as  if  Time  had  drifLed  us  back  on  the  wreck  of  our 
early  hopes  to  the  old  familiar  shore! 

To  any  other  woman  1  could  have  spoken  the  decisive 
words  which  i  still  iiesitated  to  speak  to  Iter.  The  utter 
helplessness  of  her  position;  her  friendless  dependence  on 
all  the  forbearing  gentleness  that  1  could  show  her;  my 
fear  of  touching  too  soon  some  secret  sensitiveness  in  her, 
which  my  instinct  as  a  man  might  not  have  been  fine 
enough  to  discover — these  considerations,  and  others  like 
them,  kept  me  self-distrustfully  silent.  And  yet. I  knew 
that  the  restraint  on  both  sides  must  be  endid;  that  the 
relations  in  n'hich  we  stood  toward  one  another  must  be 
altered,  in  some  settled  manner,  for  the  future;  and  that 
it  rested  with  me,  in  the  first  instance,  to  recognize  the  ne- 
cessity for  a  change. 

The  more  1  thought  of  our  position,  the  harder  the  at- 
tempt to  alter  it  appeared,  while  the  domestic  conditions 
in  which  we  three  had  been  living  together  since  the  win- 
ter remained  undisturbed.  I  can  not  account  for  the  ca- 
pricious state  of  mind  in  which  this  feeling  originated,  but 
the  idea  nevertheless  possessed  me,  that  some  previous 
change  of  place  and  circumslanccs,  some  sudden  break  in 
the  quiet  monotony  of  our  lives,  so  managed  as  to  vary  the 
home  aspect  under  which  we  had  been  accustomed  to  see 
each  other,  might  prepare  the  way  for  me  to  speak,  and 
make  it  easier  and  less  embarrassing  for  Laura  and  Marian 
to  hear. 

With  this  purpose  in  view,  I  said  one  morning  that  I 
thought  we  had  all  earned  a  little  holiday  and  a  chance  of 
scene.  After  some  consideration,  it  was  decided  that  we 
should  go  for  a  fortnight  to  the  sea-side. 

On  the  next  day  we  left  Fulham,  for  a  quiet  town  on  the 
south  coast.  At  that  early  season  of  the  year  we  were  the 
only  visitors  in  the  place.  The  cliffs,  the  beach,  and  the 
walks  inland,  were  all  in  the  solitary  condition  which  was 
most  welcome  to  us.  The  air  was  mild;  the  prospects  over 
hill  and  wood  and  down  were  beautifully  varied  by  the 
shifting  April  light  and  shade;  and  the  restless  sea  leaped 
under  our  windows,  as  if  it  felt,  like  the  land,  the  glow  aiid 
freshness  of  spring. 

1  owed,  it  to  Marian  to  consult  her  before  1  spoke  to 
Laura,  and  to  be  guided  afterward  by  her  advice. 

On  the  third  day  from  our  arrival  I  found  a  fit  oppor- 


548  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

tiniity  of  speaking  to  her  alone.  The  moment  we  looked  ai 
one  another,  her  quick  instinct  detected  the  thought  in  my 
mind  before  I  could  give  it  expression.  With  her  custom- 
ary energy  and  directness,  she  spoke  at  once,  and  spoke 
first. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  that  subject  which  was  mentioned 
between  us  on  the  evening  of  your  return  from  Hamp- 
shire," she  said.  "  I  have  been  expecting  you  to  allude  to 
it  for  some  time  past.  There  must  be  a  change  in  our  lit- 
tle household,  Walter;  we  can  not  go  on  much  longer  as 
we  are  now.  I  see  it  as  plainly  as  you  do — as  plainly  as 
Laura  sees  it,  though  she  says  nothing.  How  strangely 
the  old  times  in  Cumberland  seem  to  have  come  back! 
You  and  I  are  together  again;  and  the  one  subject  of  in- 
terest between  us  is  Laura  once  more.  1  could  almost 
fancy  that  this  room  is  the  summer-house  at  Limmeridge, 
and  that  those  waves  beyond  us  are  beating  on  otir  sea- 
shore." 

"  1  was  guided  by  your  advice  in  those  past  days,"  1 
eaid;  "  and  now,  Marian,  with  reliance  tenfold  greater,  I 
will  be  guided  by  it  again." 

She  answered  by  pressing  my  hand.  I  saw  that  she  was 
deeply  touched  by  my  reference  to  the  past.  We  sat  to- 
gether near  the  window;  and  while  I  spoke  and  she  listened, 
we  looked  at  the  glory  of  the  sunlight  shining  on  the  maj- 
esty of  the  sea. 

"  Whatever  comes  of  this  confidence  between  us,"l  said, 
"  whether  it  ends  happily  or  sorrowfully  for  me,  Laura's 
interests  will  still  be  the  interests  of  my  life.  When  we 
leave  this  place,  on  whatever  terms  we  leave  it,  my  deter- 
mination to  wrest  from  Count  Fosco  the  confession  which 
1  failed  to  obtain  from  his  accomplice  goes  back  with  me 
to  London  as  certainly  as  I  go  back  myself.  Neither  you 
nor  1  can  tell  how  that  man  may  turn  on  me,  if  1  bring 
him  to  bay;  we  only  know  by  his  own  words  and  actions 
that  he  is  capable  of  striking  at  me,  through  Laura,  with- 
out a  moment's  hesitation,  or  a  moment's  remorse.  In 
our  present  position,  I  have  no  claim  on  her  which  society 
sanctions,  which  the  law  allows,  to  strengthen  me  in  re- 
sisting him,  and  in  protecting  her.  This  places  me  at  a 
serious  disadvantage.  If  I  am  to  fight  our  caia^e  with  the 
Count,  strong  in  the  consciousness  of   Laura's  safely,   I 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WRITE.  5i9 

mast  fight  it  for  my  wife.  Do  you  agree  to  that  Marfan, 
80  far?" 

"  To  every  word  of  it/'  she  answered. 

"  I  will  not  plead  out  of  my  own  heart."  I  went  on;  "  I 
will  not  appeal  to  the  love  which  has  survived  all  changes 
and  all  shocks — 1  will  rest  my  only  vindication  of  myself 
for  thinking  of  her  and  speaking  of  her  as  my  wife,  on 
what  I  have  just  said.  If  the  chance  of  forcing  a  confes- 
sion from  the  Count  is,  as  I  believe  it  to  be,  the  last  chance 
left  of  publicly  establishing  the  fact  of  Laura's  existence, 
the  least  selfish  reason  that  1  can  advance  for  our  marriage 
is  recognized  by  us  both.  But  I  may  be  wrong  in  my  con- 
viction; other  means  of  achieving  our  purpose  may  be  in 
our  power,  which  are  less  uncertain  and  less  dangerous.  I 
have  searched  anxiously  in  my  own  mind  for  those  means, 
and  I  have  not  found  them.     Have  you?" 

"  No.  I  have  thought  about  it  too,  and  thought  in 
vain." 

"  III  all  likelihood,"  1  continued,  "  the  same  questions 
have  occurred  to  you,  in  considering  this  difficult  subject, 
which  have  occurred  to  me.  Ought  we  to  return  with  her 
to  Limmeridge,  now  that  she  is  like  herself  again,  and 
trust  to  the  recognition  of  her  by  the  people  of  the  village, 
or  by  the  children  at  the  school?  Ought  we  to  appeal  to 
the  practical  test  of  her  handwriting?  Suppose  we  did  so. 
Suppose  the  recognition  of  her  obtained,  and  the  identity 
of  the  handwriting  established,  would  success  in  both  those 
cases  do  more  than  supply  a  excellent  foundation  for  a  trial 
in  a  court  of  law?  Would  the  recognition  and  the  hand- 
writing prove  her  identity  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  and  take  her  back 
to  Limmeridge  House,  against  the  evidence  of  her  aunt, 
against  the  evidence  of  the  medical  certificate,  against  the 
fact  of  the  funeral  and  the  fact  of  the  inscription  on  the 
tomb?  No!  We  could  only  hope  to  succeed  in  throwing 
a  serious  doubt  on  the  assertion  of  her  death — a  doubt  which 
nothing  short  of  a  legal  inquiry  can  settle.  I  will  assume 
that  we  possess  (what  we  have  certainly  not  got)  money 
enough  to  carry  this  inquiry  on  through  all  its  stages.  I 
will  assume  that  Mr.  Fairlie's  prejudices  might  be  reasoned 
away;  that  the  false  testiaiouy  of  the  Count  and  his  wife, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  false  testimony,  might  be  confuted; 
that  the  recognition  could  not  possibly  be  ascribed  to  a  mis- 
take between  Laura  and  Anne  Catherick,  or  the  hand  writ 


560  THE    WOMA]!T    IN    WHITE. 

ing  be  declared  by  our  enemies  to  be  a  clever  fraud — all 
these  are  assumptions  which,  more  or  less,  set  plain  proba- 
bilities at  defiance,  but  let  them  pass — and  let  us  ask  our- 
selves what  would  be  the  first  consequence  of  the  first  ques- 
tions put  to  Laura  herself  on  the  subject  of  the  conspiracy. 
We  know  only  too  well  what  the  consequence  would  be,  for 
we  know  that  she  has  never  recovered  her  memory  of  what 
happened  to  her  in  London.  Examine  her  privately,  or 
examine  her  publicly,  she  is  utterly  incapable  of  assisting 
the  assertion  of  her  own  case.  If  you  don't  see  this,  Mar- 
ian, as  plainly  as  1  see  it,  we  will  go  to  Limmericige  and 
try  the  experiment  to-morrow." 

"  1  do  see  it,  VV alter.  Even  if  we  had  the  means  of  pay- 
ing  all  the  law  expenses,  even  if  we  succeeded  in  the  end, 
the  delays  would  be  unendurable;  the  perpetual  suspense, 
after  what  we  have  suffered  already,  would  be  heart-break- 
ing. You  are  right  about  the  hopelessness  of  going  to 
Limmeridge.  I  wish  1  could  feel  sure  that  you  are  right 
also  in  determining  to  try  that  last  chance  with  the  Count. 
/s  it  a  chance  at  all?" 

"  Beyond  a  doubt,  yes.  It  is  the  chance  of  recovering 
the  lost  date  of  Laura's  journey  to  London.  Without  re- 
turning to  the  reasons  I  gave  you  some  time  since,  I  am 
still  as  firmly  persuaded  as  ever  that  there  is  a  discrepancy 
between  the  date  of  that  journey  and  the  date  on  the  cer- 
tificate of  death.  There  lies  the  weak  point  of  the  whole 
conspiracy;  it  crumbles  to  pieces  if  we  attack  it  in  that 
way,  and  tlie  means  of  attacking  it  are  in  possession  of  the 
Count.  If  I  succeed  in  wresting  them  from  him,  ihe  ob- 
ject of  your  life  and  mine  is  fulfilled.  If  I  fail  the  wrong 
that  Laura  has  suffered  will  in  this  world  never  be  re- 
dressed." 

"  Do  you  fear  failure  yourself,  Walter?" 

"  ]  dare  not  anticipate  success;  and  for  that  very  reason, 
Marian,  I  speak  openly  and  plainly,  as  I  have  spoken  now. 
In  my  heart  and  my  conscience  I  can  say  it — Laura's 
hopes  for  the  future  are  at  their  lowest  ebb,  1  know  that 
her  fortune  is  gone;  I  know  that  the  last  chance  of  restor- 
ing her  to  her  place  in  the  world  lies  at  the  mercy  of  her 
worst  enemy — of  a  man  who  is  now  absolutely  unassailable, 
and  who  may  remain  unassaMable  to  the  end.  With  every 
worldly  advantage  gnne  from  her;  with  all  prospect  of  re- 
covering her  rank  and  station  more  th^ui  doubtful;  with  no 


THE    V.OMAN    IN    WHITE.  551 

clearer  futuro  before  lier  than  the  future  wliich  her  hus- 
bami  can  provide — the  poor  drawing-master  may  harmlessly 
open  his  heart  at  last.  In  the  days  of  her  prosperity,  Mari- 
an,  1  was  only  the  teacher  who  guided  her  hand — 1  ask 
for  it,  in  her  adversity,  as  the  hand  of  my  wife!" 

Marian's  eyes  met  mine  affectionately — 1  could  say  no 
mdre.  My  heart  was  full,  my  lips  were  trembling.  In 
spite  of  myself,  1  was  in  danger  of  appealing  to  her  pity, 
i  got  up  to  leave  the  room.  8he  rose  at  the  same  moment, 
laid  her  hand  gently  ou  my  shoulder,  and  stopped  me. 

"  Walter!"  she  said,  "  1  once  parted  you  both,  for  your 
good  and  for  hers.  Wait  here,  my  Brother! — wait  my 
dearest,  best  friend,  till  Laura  comes  and  tells  you  what  I 
have  done  now!" 

i"or  the  first  time  shice  the  farewell  morning  at  Limme- 
rKlgCy  she  touched  my  forehead  with  her  lips.  A  tear 
dropped  on  my  face  as  she  kissed  me.  She  turned  quickly, 
pointed  to  the  chair  from  which  I  had  rjsen,  and  left  the 
room. 

1  sat  down  alone  at  the  window,  to  wait  through  the 
crisis  of  my  life.  My  mind,  in  that  breathless  interval, 
felt  like  a  total  blank.  I  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  a 
painful  intensity  of  all  familiar  perceptions.  The  sun  grew 
blinding  bright;  the  white  sea-birds,  chasing  each  other  far 
beyond  me,  seemed  to  be  flitting  before  my  face;  the  mel- 
low murmur  of  the  waves  on  the  beach  was  like  thunder  in 
ojy  ears. 

The  door  opened,  and  Laura  came  in  alone.  So  she  had 
entered  the  breakfast-room  at  Limmeridge  House  on  the 
morning  when  we  parted.  Slowly  and  falteringly,  in  sor- 
row and  in  hesitation,  she  had  once  approached  me.  Now 
she  came  with  the  haste  of  happiness  in  her  feet,  with  the 
^ight  of  happiness  radiant  in  her  face.  Of  their  own  accord, 
those  dear  arms  clasped  themselves  round  me;  of  their  own 
accord  the  sweet  lips  came  to  meet  mine.  "  My  darling!" 
she  whispered,"  we  may  own  we  love  each  other  now?"  Her 
head  nestled  with  a  tender  contentedness  on  my  bosom. 
*'  Oh,"  she  said,  innocently,  "  1  am  so  happy  at  last!" 

Tea  days  later  we  were  happier  still.     We  were  married. 


553  THE    WOMAN    US'     WHITE. 


IV. 


The  course  of  this  narrative,  steadily  flowing  on,  bears 
mc  away  from  the  morning-time  of  our  married  life,  and 
carries  me  forward  to  the  end. 

In  a  fortnight  more  we  three  were  back  in  London,  and 
the  shadow  was  stealing  over  us  of  the  struggle  to  come. 
Marian  and  I  were  careful  to  keep  Laura  in  ignorance  oi 
the  cause  that  had  hurried  us  back — the  necessity  of  mak 
ing  sure  of  the  Count.  It  was  now  the  beginning  of  May, 
and  his  term  of  occupation  at  the  house  in  Forest  Eoad  ex- 
pired in  June.  If  he  renewed  it  (and  I  had  reasons,  shortly 
to  be  mentioned,  for  anticipating  that  he  would),  I  might 
be  certain  of  his  not  escaping  me.  But  if  by  any  chance 
he  disappointed  my  expectations  and  left  the  country,  then 
I  had  no  time  to  lose  in  arming  myself  to  meet  him  as  I 
best  might. 

In  the  first  fullness  of  my  new  happiness,  there  had  been 
moments  when  my  resolution  faltered — moments  when  I 
was  tempted  to  be  safely  content,  now  that  the  dearest 
aspiration  of  my  life  was  fulfilled  in  the  possession  of  Laura's 
love.  For  the  first  time  1  thought  faint-heartedly  of  the 
greatness  of  the  risk;  of  the  adverse  chances  arrayed  against 
me;  of  the  fair  promise  of  our  new  lives,  and  of  the  peril 
in  which  I  might  place  the  happiness  which  we  had  so 
hardly  earned.  Yes!  let  me  own  it  honestly.  For  a  brief 
time  1  wandered,  in  the  sweet  guiding  of  love,  far  from  the 
purpose  to  which  I  had  been  true,  under  sterner  discipline 
and  in  darker  days.  Innocently  Laura  had  tempted  me 
aside  from  the  hard  path — innocently  she  was  destined  t' 
lead  me  back  again. 

At  times  dreams  of  the  terrible  past  still  disconnectedlj 
recalled  to  her,  in  the  mystery  of  sleep,  the  events  of  which 
her  waking  memory  had  lost  all  trace.  One  night  (barely 
two  weeks  after  our  marriage),  when  I  was  watching  her  at 
rest,  I  saw  the  tears  come  iilowly  through  her  closed  eye- 
lids, I  heard  the  faint  murmuring  words  escape  her  which 
told  me  that  her  spirit  was  back  again  on  the  fatal  journey 
from  Blackwater  Park.  That  unconscious  appeal,  so 
toiicliing  and  so  awful  in  the  sacred ncss  of  her  slet  p,  ra;i 
through  me  like  fire.     The  next  day  was  the  day  we  came 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  653 

back  to  London — the  day  when  my  resolution  returned  to 
uie  with  tenfold  strength. 

The  first  necessity  was  to  know  something  of  the  man. 
Thus  far  the  true  story  of  his  life  was  an  impenetrable 
mystery  to  me. 

I  began  with  such  scanty  sources  of  information  as  were 
at  my  own  disposal.  The  importan*:  narrative  written  by 
Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie  (which  Marian  had  obtained  by  fol- 
lowing the  directions  I  had  given  to  her  in  the  winter) 
f  roved  to  be  of  no  service  to  the  special  object  with  which 
now  looked  at  it.  While  reading  it,  1  reconsidered  the 
disclosure  revealed  to  me  by  Mrs,  Clements  of  the  series  of 
deceptions  wbich  had  brought  Anne  Catherick  to  London, 
and  which  had  there  devoted  her  to  the  interests  of  the  con- 
spiracy. Here  again,  the  Count  had  not  openly  committed 
himself;  here,  again,  he  was,  to  all  practical  purpose,  out 
of  my  reach. 

I  next  returned  to  Marian's  journal  at  Blackwater  Park. 
At  my  request  she  read  to  me  again  a  passage  which  re- 
ferred to  her  past  curiosity  about  the  Count,  and  to  the  few 
particulars  which  she  had  discovered  relating  to  him. 

The  passage  to  which  1  allude  occurs  in  that  part  of  her 
journal  which  delineates  his  character  and  his  personal  ap- 
pearance. She  describes  him  as  "  not  having  crossed  the 
frontiers  of  his  native  country  for  years  past  " — as  "  anxious 
to  know  if  any  Italian  gentlemen  were  settled  in  the  nearest 
town  to  Blackwater  Park  " — as  "  receiving  letters  with  all 
sorts  of  odd  stamps  on  them,  and  one  with  a  large,  official- 
looking  seal  on  it. "  She  is  inclined  to  consider  that  his 
long  absence  from  his  native  country  may  be  accounted  for 
by  assuming  that  he  is  a  political  exile.  But  she  is,  on  the 
other  hand,  unable  to  reconcile  this  idea  with  the  reception 
of  the  letter  from  abroad  bearing  "  the  large,  official-look- 
ing seal  " — letters  from  the  Continent  addressed  to  political 
exiles  being  usually  the  last  to  court  attention  from  foreign 
post-offices  in  that  way. 

The  considerations  thus  presented  to  me  in  the  diary, 
joined  to  certain  surmises  of  my  own  that  grew  out  of  them, 
suggested  a  conclusion  which  I  wondered  I  had  not  arrived 
at  before.  I  now  said  to  myself — what  Laura  had  once  said 
10  Marian  at  Blackwater  Park;  whatMme.  Foscohad  over- 
heard by  listening  at  the  door — the  Coin)t  is  a  Spy! 

Laura  had  applied  the  word  to  him  at  hazard,  in  natural 


554  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

anger  at  his  proceedings  toward  herself,  /applied  it  to 
mm,  with  the  deliberate  conviction  that  his  vocation  in  life 
was  the  vocation  of  a  Spy.  On  this  assumption,  the  reason 
for  his  extraordinary  stay  in  England,  so  long  after  the  ob- 
jects of  the  conspiracy  had  been  gained,  became,  to  my 
mind,  quite  intelligible. 

The  year  of  which  1  am  now  writing  was  the  year  of  tiie 
famous  Crystal  Palace  Exhibition  in  Hyde  Park.  Foreign- 
ers, in  unusually  larger  numbers,  had  arrived  already,  and 
were  still  arriving  in  England.  Men  were  among  us  by 
hundreds,  whom  the  ceaseless  distrustfulness  of  their  gov- 
ernments had  followed  privately,  by  means  of  appointed 
agents,  to  our  shores.  My  surmises  did  not  for  a  moment 
class  a  man  of  the  Count's  abilities  and  social  position  with 
the  ordinary  rank  and  file  of  foreign  spies.  I  suspected 
him  of  holding  a  position  of  authority,  of  being  intrusted 
by  the  government  which  he  secretly  served  with  the  or- 
ganization and  management  of  agents  specially  employed 
in  this  country,  both  men  and  women;  and  1  believed  Mrs, 
Eubelle,  who  had  been  so  opportunely  found  to  act  as 
nurse  at  Blackwater  P'^^,  to  be,  in  all  probability,  one  of 
the  number. 

Assuming  that  this  idea  of  mine  had  a  foundation  in 
truth,  the  position  of  the  Count  might  prove  to  be  more 
assailable  than  1  had  hitherto  ventured  to  hope.  To  whom 
could  I  apply  to  know  something  more  of  the  man's  his- 
tory, and  of  the  man  himself,  than  I  knew  now? 

In  this  emergency,  it  naturally  occurred  to  my  mind  that 
a  countryman  of  his  own  on  whom  I  could  rely  might  be 
the  fittest  person  to  help  me.  The  first  man  whom  1 
thought  of,  under  these  circumstances,  was  also  the  only 
Italian  with  whom  1  was  intimately  acquainted — my  quaint 
little  friend.  Professor  Pesca. 

The  professor  has  been  so  long  absent  from  these  pages, 
that  he  has  run  some  risk  of  being  forgotten  altogether. 

It  is  the  necessary  law  of  such  a  story  as  mine  that  the 
j>ersons  concerned  in  it  only  appear  when  the  course  of 
events  takes  them  up;  they  come  and  go,  not  by  favor  of 
my  personal  partiality,  but  by  right  of  their  direct  connec- 
tion with  tiie  circumstances  to  be  detailed.  For  this  reason, 
not  Pesca  only,  but  my  mother  and  sister  as  well,  have  hecv. 
left   far  in  the  background  of  the  narrative.     My  visit  u 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  .       555 

the  Hani pstead  cottage;  my  motliez-'s  belief  in  the  denial  of 
Laura's  idea  Li  ty  which  the  conspiracy  hud  accomplished; 
my  vain  efforts  to  overcome  tlie  prejiulice  on  her  part  and 
on  my  sister's,  to  wliich,  in  their  jealous  affection  for  me, 
they  both  continued  to  adhere;  the  painful  necessity  which 
that  prejudice  imposed  on  me  ot  concealing  my  marriuge 
from  lliem  till  they  had  learned  to  do  justice  to  my  wife — 
all  these  little  domestic  occurrences  have  been  left  unre- 
corded, because  they  were  not  essential  to  the  main  interest 
of  the  story.  It  is  nothing  that  they  added  to  my  anxieties 
and  imbittered  my  disappointments — the  steady  march  of 
events  had  inexorably  passed  them  by. 

For  the  same  reason,  i  have  said  nothing  here  of  the  con- 
solation that  I  found  in  Pesca's  brotlierly  affection  for  me, 
when  I  saw  him  again  after  the  sudden  cessation  of  my  res- 
idence at  Limmeridge  House.  I  have  not  recorded  the 
fidelity  with  which  my  warm-hearted  little  friend  followed 
me  to  the  place  of  embarkation  when  I  sailed  for  Central 
America,  or  the  noisy  transport  of  joy  with  which  he  re- 
ceived me  when  we  next  met  in  London.  If  1  had  felt 
justified  in  accepting  the  offers  of  service  which  he  made 
to  me  on  my  return,  he  would  have  appeared  again  long 
ere  this.  But  though  I  knew  that  his  honor  and  his  cour- 
age were  to  be  ira[)licitly  relied  on,  1  was  not  sure  that  his 
discretion  was  to  be  trusted;  and,  for  that  reason  only,  1 
followed  the  course  of  all  my  inquiries  alone.  It  will  now 
be  sufficiently  understood  that  Pesca  was  not  separated  from 
all  connection  with  me  and  my  interests,  although  he  has 
hitherto  been  separated  from  all  connection  with  the  pro- 
gress of  this  narrative.  He  was  as  true  and  as  ready  a 
friend  of  mine  still  as  ever  he  had  been  in  his  life. 

Before  I  summoned  Pesca  to  my  assistance,  it  was  nec- 
essary to  see  for  myself  what  sort  of  a  man  1  had  to  deal 
with.  Up  to  this  time,  I  had  never  once  set  eyes  on  Count 
Fosco. 

Three  days  after  my  return  with  Laura  and  Marian  to 
London,  1  set  forth  alone  for  Forest  Road,  St.  John's 
Wood,  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  It 
was  a  fine  day — I  had  some  hours  to  spare — and  I  thought 
it  likel3%  if  I  waited  a  little  far  him,  that  the  Count  might 
be  tempted  out.  I  had  no  great  reason  to  fear  the  chance 
oJE  his  recognizing  me  in  the  day-time,  for  the  only  occasion 


556  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

when  1  had  been  seen  by  him  was  the  occasion  on  which  he 
had  followed  me  home  at  night. 

No  one  appeared  at  the  windows  in  the  front  of  the  house. 
1  walked  down  a  turning  which  ran  past  the  side  of  it,  and 
looked  over  the  low  garden  wall.  One  of  the  back  win- 
dows on  the  lower  floor  was  thrown  up,  and  a  net  was 
stretched  across  the  opening.  1  saw  nobjdy;  but  I  heard, 
in  the  room,  first  a  shrill  whistling  and  singing  of  birds — 
then  the  deep  ringing  voice  which  Marian's  description  had 
made  familiar  to  me.  "  Come  out  on  my  little  tinger,  my 
pret-pret-pretties!"  cried  the  voice.  "  Come  out,  and 
hop  upstairs!  One,  two,  three — and  up!  Tliree,  two,  one 
— and  down!  One,  two,  three — twit-twit-twit-tvveet!"  The 
Count  was  exercising  his  canaries,  as  he  used  to  exercise 
them  in  Marian's  time,  at  Blackwater  Park. 

1  waited  a  little  while,  and  the  singing  and  the  whistling 
ceased.  "  Gome,  kiss  me,  my  pretties!"  said  the  deep 
voice.  There  was  a  responsive  twittering  and  chirping — 
a  low,  oily  laugh — a  silence  of  a  minute  or  so — and  then  I 
heard  the  opening  of  the  house  door.  1  turned,  and  re- 
traced my  steps.  The  magnificent  melody  of  the  Prayer 
in  Kossini's  "  Moses,"  sung  in  a  sonorous  bass  voice,  rose 
grandly  through  the  suburban  silence  of  the  place.  The 
front  garden-gate  opened  and  closed.  The  Count  had 
come  out. 

He  crossed  the  road,  and  walked  toward  the  western 
boundary  of  the  Regent's  Park.  1  kept  on  my  own  side 
of  the  way,  a  little  behind  him,  and  walked  in  that  direc- 
tion also. 

Marian  had  prepared  me  for  his  high  stature,  his  mon- 
strous corpulence,  and  his  ostentatious  mourning  garments 
— but  not  for  the  horrible  freshness  and  cheerfulness  and 
vitality  of  the  man.  He  carried  his  sixty  years  as  if  they 
had  been  fewer  than  forty.  He  sauntei-ed  along,  wearing 
his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  with  a  light  ja,unly  step,  swing- 
ing his  big  stick,  humming  to  himself;  looking  up,  from 
time  to  time,  at  the  houses  and  gardens  on  eitlier  side  of 
him  with  superb,  smiling  patronage.  If  a  stranger  had 
been  told  that  the  whole  neighborhood  belonged  to  him. 
that  stranger  would  not  have  been  surprised  to  hear  it.  Jin 
never  looked  back:  he  paid  no  apparent  attention  to  me,  n  • 
apparent  attention  to  any  one  who  passed  him  on  his  own 
side  of  the  road — except,  now  and  then,  when  he  smiled 


THE    WOMAK    IK    WHITE.  657 

and  smirked,  with  an  easy,  paternal  good-humor,  at  the 
nursery-maids  and  the  children  whom  he  met.  In  this 
way,  he  led  me  on,  till  we  reached  a  colony  of  shops  outside 
the  western  terraces  of  the  Park. 

Here  he  stopped  at  a  pastry-cook's,  went  hi  (probably  to 
give  an  order),  and  came  out  again  immediately  with  a 
tart  in  his  hand.  An  Italian  was  grinding  an  organ  before 
the  shop,  and  a  miserable  little  shriveled  monkey  was  sit- 
ting on  the  instrument.  The  Count  stopped,  bit  a  piece  for 
himself  out  of  the  tart,  and  gravely  handed  the  rest  to  the 
monkey.  "  My  poor  little  man!"  he  said,  with  grotesque 
tenderness;  "you  look  hungry.  In  the  sacred  name  of 
humanity,  I  offer  you  some  lunch!"  The  organ-griudei- 
piteously  put  in  his  claim  to  a  penny  from  the  benevolent 
stranger.  The  Count  shrugged  his  .^:l.oulders  contemptu- 
ously, and  passed  on. 

We  reached  the  streets  and  the  better  class  of  shops  be- 
tween the  New  Eoad  and  Oxford  Street.  The  Count 
stopped  again,  and  entered  a  small  optician's  shop,  with 
an  inscription  in  the  window,  aimouncing  that  repairs  were 
neatly  executed  inside.  He  came  out  agaiu,  with  an  opera- 
glass  in  his  hand,  walked  a  few  paces  on,  and  stopped  to 
look  at  a  bill  of  the  Opera,  placed  outside  a  music-seller's 
shop.  He  read  the  bill  attentively,  considered  a  moment, 
and  then  hailed  an  empty  cab  as  it  passed  him.  *'  Opera 
b  )x-otfice,"  he  said  to  the  man,  and  was  driven  away. 

I  crossed  the  road,  and  looked  at  the  bill  in  my  turn. 
The  performance  announced  was  "  Lucrezia  Borgia,"  and 
it  was  to  take  place  that  evening.  The  opera-glass  in  the 
Count's  hand,  his  careful  reading  of  the  bill,  and  his  di- 
rection to  the  cabman,  all  suggested  that  he  proposed  mak- 
ing one  of  the  audience.  I  had  the  means  of  getting  an 
admission  for  myself  and  a  friend,  to  the  pit,  by  applying 
to  one  of  the  scene-painters  attached  to  the  theater,  with 
whom  I  had  been  well  acquainted  in  past  times.  There 
was  a  chance,  at  least,  that  the  Count  might  be  easily  vis- 
ible among  the  audience,  to  me,  and  to  any  one  with  me; 
and  in  thia  case  I  had  the  means  of  ascertaining  whether 
Pesca  knew  his  countryman  or  not  that  very  night. 

This  consideration  at  once  decided  the  disposal  of  my 
evening.  1  procured  the  tickets,  leaving  a  note  at  the  Pro- 
fessor's lodgings  on  the  way.  At  a  quarter  to  eight  I  called 
to  take  him  with  me  to  the  theater.    My  little  friend  was  in 


558  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

a  state  of  the  highest  excitement,  with  a  festive  flower  in 
his  button-hole,  and  the  largest  opera-glass  I  ever  saw 
hugged  up  under  his  arm. 

"  Are  you  ready?"  J  asked. 

"  Eight-all-right,"  said  Pesca. 

We  started  for  the  theater. 


V. 

The  last  notes  of  the  introduction  to  the  opera  were 
being  played,  and  the  seats  in  the  pit  were  all  filled,  when 
Pesca  and  I  reached  the  theater. 

There  was  plenty  of  room,  however,  in  the  passage  that 
rail  round  the  pit — precisely  the  position  best  calculated  to 
answer  the  purpose  for  which  I  was  attending  the  perform- 
ance. I  went  first  to  the  barrier  separating  us  from  the 
stalls,  and  looked  for  the  Count  in  that  part  of  the  theater. 
He  was  not  there.  Returning  along  the  passage  on  the 
left  hand  side  from  the  stage,  and  looking  about  me  atten- 
tively, I  discovered  him  in  the  pit.  He  occupied  an  excel- 
lent place,  some  twelve  or  fourteen  seats  from  the  end  of  a 
bench,  within  three  rows  of  the  stalls.  I  placed  myself 
exactly  on  a  line  with  him;  Pesca  standing  by  my  side. 
The  professor  was  not  yet  aware  of  the  purpose  for  which 
I  had  brought  him  to  the  theater,  and  he  was  rather  sur- 
prised that  we  did  not  movo  nearer  to  the  stage. 

The  curtain  rose,  and  the  opera  began. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  the  fir^t  act  we  remained  in 
our  position — the  Count,  absorbed  by  the  orchestra  and 
the  stage,  never  casting  so  much  as  a  chance  glance  at  us. 
Not  a  note  of  Donizetti's  delicious  music  was  lost  on  him. 
There  he  sat,  high  above  his  neighbors,  smiling,  and  nod- 
ding his  great  head  enjoyingly,  from  time  to  time.  When 
the  people  near  him  applauded  the  close  of  an  air  (as  an 
English  audience  in  such  circumstances  always  will  ap- 
plaud), without  the  least  consideration  for  the  orchestral 
movement  which  immediately  followed  it,  he  looked  round 
at  them  with  an  expression  of  compassionate  remonstrance, 
and  held  up  one  hand  with  a  gesture  of  polite  entreaty. 
At  the  more  refined  passages  of  the  singing,  at  the  more 
delicate  phrases  of  the  music,  which  p:issed  unapplauded 
by  others,  his  fat  hands,    adorned   with   perfeoUy-fittin^ 


THE     WOMAN     IN    WHITE.  559 

black  kid  gloves,  softly  patted  each  other,  in  token  of  the 
cultivated  Hiipreciutioti  of  a  musical  man.  At  such  times 
his  oily  murmur  of  approval,  "  Bravo!  Bra-a-a-al"  hummed 
through  the  silence,  like  the  purring  of  a  great  cat.  Uis 
immediate  neighbors  on  either  side — hearty,  ruddy-faced 
people  from  the  country,  basking  amazedly  in  the  sunshine 
of  fashionable  London — seeing  and  hearing  him,  began  to 
ioUow  his  lead.  Many  a  burst  of  applause  from  the  pit 
that  night  started  from  the  soft,  comfortable  patting  of  the 
black-gloved  hands.  The  man's  voracious  vanity  devoured 
this  implied  tribute  to  his  local  and  critical  supremacy, 
with  ati  appearance  of  the  highest  relish.  Smiles  rippled 
continuously  over  his  fat  face.  He  looked  about  him,  at 
the  pauses  in  the  music,  serenely  satisfied  with  himself  and 
his  fellow-creatures.  "  Yes!  yes!  these  barbarous  English 
people  are  learning  something  from  me.  Here,  there,  and 
everywhere,  1 — Fosco — am  an  Influence  that  is  felt,  a  Man 
who  sits  supreme!"  If  ever  face  spoke,  his  face  spoke 
then — and  that  was  its  language. 

The  curtain  fell  on  the  first  act;  and  the  audience  rose 
to  look  about  them.  This  was  the  time  I  had  waited  for 
— the  time  to  try  if  Pesca  knew  him. 

He  rose  with  the  rest,  and  surveyed  the  occupants  of  the 
boxes  grandly  with  his  opera-glass.  At  first  his  back  was 
toward  us;  but  he  turned  round  in  time  to  our  side  of  the 
theater,  and  looked  at  the  boxes  above  us;  using  his  glass 
for  a  few  minutes — then  removing  it,  but  still  continuing 
to  look  up.  This  was  the  moment  I  chose,  when  his  full 
face  was  in  view,  for  directing  Pesca's  attention  to  him. 

"  Do  you  know  that  man?"  I  asked. 

"  Which  man,  my  friend?" 

"  The  tall  fat  man  standing  there,  with  his  face  toward 
us." 

Pesca  raised  himself  on  tiptoe,  and  looked  at  the  Count. 

"  No,"  said  the  Professor.  "  The  big  fat  man  is  a 
stranger  to  me.  Is  he  famous?  Whv  do  you  point  him 
out?" 

"  Because  I  have  particular  reasons  for  wishing  to  know 
something  of  him.  He  is  a  countryman  of  yours;  his  name 
is  Count  Fosco.     Do  you  know  that   name?" 

"  Not  I,  Walter.  Neither  the  name  nor  the  man  is 
known  to  me." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  you  don't  recognize  him?    Look 


560  THE    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

again;  look  carefully.  1  will  tell  you  why  I  am  so  anxious 
about  it  when  we  leave  the  theater.  Stop!  let  me  help  you 
up  here,  where  you  can  see  him  better.^' 

1  helped  the  little  man  to  perch  himself  on  the  edge  of 
die  raised  dais  upon  which  the  pit  seats  were  all  placed. 
Here  his  small  statue  was  no  hinderance  to  him;  here  he 
could  see  over  the  heads  of  the  ladies  who  were  seated  hear 
the  outermost  part  of  tlie  bench. 

A  slim,  light-haired  man,  standing  by  us,  whom  I  had 
not  noticed  before — a  man  with  a  scar  on  hip  left  cheek—, 
looked  attentively  at  Pesca  as  I  held  him  up,  and  then 
looked  still  more  attentively,  following  the  direction  oi 
Pesca's  eyes,  at  the  Count.  Our  conversation  might  have 
reached  his  ears,  and  might,  as  it  struck  me,  have  roused 
his  curiosity. 

Meanwhile  Pesca  fixed  his  eyes  earnestly  on  Ine  broad, 
full,  smiling  face,  turned  a  little  upward,  exactly  opposite 
to  him. 

"  No,"  he  said;  "  I  have  never  set  my  two  eyes  on  that 
big  fat  man  before  in  all  my  life. " 

As  he  spoke  the  Count  looked  downward  toward  the 
boxes  behind  us  on  the  pit  tier. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  Italians  met. 

The  instant  before,  I  had  been  perfectly  satisfied,  from 
his  own  reiterated  assertion,  that  Pesca  did  not  know  the 
Count.  The  instant  afterward,  1  was  equally  certain  that 
the  Count  knew  Pascal 

Knew  him;  and  — more  surprising  still — feared  him  as 
well!  There  was  no  mistaking  the  change  that  passed 
over  the  villain's  face.  The  leaden  hue  that  altered  his 
yellow  complexion  in  a  moment,  the  sudden  rigidity  of  all 
his  features,  the  furtive  scrutiny  of  his  cold  gray  eyes,  the 
motionless  stillness  of  him  from  head  to  foot,  told  their 
own  tale.  A  mortal  dread  had  mastered  him,  body  and  soul 
— and  his  recognition  of  Pesca  was  the  cause  of  it! 

The  slim  man  with  the  scar  on  his  cheek  was  still  close 
by  us.  He  had  apparently  drawn  his  inference  from  the 
effect  produced  on  the  Count  by  the  sight  of  Pesca,  as  1 
had  drawn  mine.  He  was  a  mild,  gentleman-like  man. 
looking  like  a  foreigner;  and  his  interest  in  our  proceed- 
ings was  not  expressed  in  anything  approaching  to  an 
offensive  manner. 

For  my  own  part,  I  was  so  startled  by  the  change  in  the 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  561 

Count's  face,  so  astounded  at  the  entirely  unexpected  turn 
which  events  had  taken,  that  I  knew  neitlier  what  to  say  or 
do  next.  Pesca  roused  me  by  stepping  back  to  his  former 
place  at  my  side,  and  speaking  first. 

"  How  the  fat  man  stares  I"  he  exclaimed.  "Is  it  at 
me?"  Am  I  famous?  How  can  he  know  me,  when  1 
don't  know  himJ"' 

1  kept  my  eye  still  on  the  Count.  I  saw  him  move  for 
the  first  time  when  Pesca  moved,  so  as  not  to  lose  sight  oi 
the  little  man,  in  the  lower  position  in  which  he  now  stood. 
I  was  curious  to  see  what  would  happen  if  Peaca's  atten' 
tion,  under  these  circumstances,  was  withdrawn  from  him; 
and  1  accordingly  asked  the  Professor  if  he  recognized  any 
of  his  pupils  that  evening  among  the  ladies  in  the  boxes, 
Pesca  immediately  raised  the  large  opera-glass  to  eyes,  and 
moved  it  slowly  all  round  the  upper  part  of  the  theater, 
searching  for  his  j)upils  with  the  most  conscientious  scru- 
tiny. 

The  moment  he  showed  himself  to  be  thus  engaged,  the 
Count  turned  round,  slipped  past  the  persons  who  occupied 
seats  on  the  further  side  of  him  from  where  we  stood,  and 
disappeared  in  the  middle  passage  down  the  center  of  the 
pit.  I  caught  Pesca  by  the  arm;  and,  to  his  inexpressible  as- 
tonishment, hurried  him  round  with  me  to  the  back  of  the 
pit,  to  intercept  the  Count  before  he  could  get  to  the  door. 
Somewhat  to  my  surprise,  the  slim  man  hastened  out  before 
us,  avoiding  a  stoppage  caused  by  some  people  on  our  side 
of  the  pit  leaving  their  places,  by  which  Pesca  and  myself 
were  delayed.  When  we  reached  the  lobby  the  Count  had 
disappeared,  and  the  foreigner  with  the  scar  was  gone  too. 

"  Come  home,"  1  said;  "  come  home,  Pesca,  to  your 
lodgings.  1  must  speak  to  you  in  private — 1  must  speak 
directly.'' 

"  My-soul-bless-my-soul!"  cried  the  Professor,  in  a  state 
of  the  extremest  bewilderment.  "  What  on  earth  is  the 
matter?" 

I  walked  on  rapidly  without  answering.  The  circum- 
stances under  which  the  Count  had  left  the  theater  sug- 
gested to  me  that  his  extraordinary  anxiety  to  escape  Pe-(;a 
might  carry  him  to  further  extremities  still.  He  migit 
escape  me,  too,  by  leaving  London.  I  doubted  the  i'utire, 
if  I  allowed  him  so  much  as  a  day's  freedom  to  aot,  ii,>  he 
pleased.    And  1  doubted  that  foreign  stranger  who  had  got 


562  THE    WOMAN     IN    WHITE. 

the  start  of  us,  and  whom  I  suspected  of  intentionally  fol« 
lowing  him  out. 

With  this  double  distrust  in  my  mind,  1  was  not  long  in 
making  Pesca  understand  what  I  wanted.  As  soon  as  wq 
two  were  alone  in  his  room,  1  increased  his  confusion  and 
amazement  a  hundred-fold  by  telling  him  what  my  purpose 
was,  as  plainly  and  unreservedly  as  I  have  acknowledged  it 
here, 

"  My  friend,  what  can  I  do?"  cried  the  Professor,  pit- 
eoiisly  appealing  to  me  with  both  hands.  "  Deuce-what- 
the-deuce!  how  can  I  help  you,  Walter,  when  1  don't  know 
the  man?" 

"  He  knows  yrm — he  is  afraid  of  you — he  has  left  th* 
theater  to  escape  you.  Pesca!  there  must  be  some  reason 
far  this.  Look  back  into  your  own  life  before  you  came  to 
England.  You  left  Italy,  as  you  have  told  me  yourself, 
for  political  reasons.  You  have  never  mentioned  those 
reasons  to  me;  and  I  don't  inquire  into  them  now.  I  only 
ask  you  to  consult  your  own  recollections,  and  to  say  if 
they  suggest  no  past  cause  for  the  terror  which  the  first 
sight  of  you  produced  in  that  man.'' 

To  my  unutterable  surprise,  these  words,  harmless  as 
they  appeared  to  7ne,  produced  the  same  astounding  effect 
on  Pesca  which  the  sight  of  Pesca  had  produced  on  the 
Count.  The  rosy  face  of  my  little  friend  whitened  in  an 
instant;  and  he  drew  back  from  me  slowly,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot. 

*'  Walter!"  he  said.    "  You  don't  know  what  you  ask." 

He  sjioke  in  a  whisper — he  looked  at  me  as  if  1  had  sud' 
denly  revealed  to  him  some  hidden  danger  to  both  of  us. 
In  less  than  one  minute  of  time,  he  was  so  altered  from  the 
easy,  lively,  quaint  little  man  of  all  my  past  experience, 
that  if  I  had  met  him  in  the  street,  changed  as  I  saw  him 
now,  I  should  most  certainly  not  have  known  him  again. 

"  Forgive  me,  if  1  have  unintentionally  pained  and 
shocked  you,"  1  replied.  "Remember  the  cruel  wrong 
my  wife  has  suffered  at  Count  Fosco's  hands.  Remember 
that  the  wrong  can  never  be  redressed,  unless  the  means  are 
in  ray  power  of  forcing  him  to  do  her  justice.  I  spoke  in 
lier  interests,  Pesca — i  ask  you  again  (o  forgive  me — I  can 
uay  no  more." 

1  rose  to  go.     Tie  stopped  me  before  I  reached  the  door. 

"  Wait,"  he  said.     "  You  have  shaken  me  from  head  to 


THR    WOMAN"    IN    WIIITK.  563 

foot.  You  don't  know  how  1  kfi  xnj^  couiiLi-y,  uiid  why  I 
left  my  country.  Let  me  compose  niysell' — let  me  think,  ii 
:cau." 

1  returned  to  my  chair.  He  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  talking  to  himself  incoherently  in  liis  own  language. 
After  several  turns  backward  and  forward,  he  suddenly 
came  up  to  me,  and  laid  his  little  hands  with  a  strange 
tenderness  and  solemnity  on  my  breast. 

"  On  your  heart  and  soul,  Walter,"  he  said,  "  is  there  no 
other  way  to  get  to  that  man  but  the  chance-way  through 
me?'* 

"  There  is  no  other  way,"  1  auswered. 

He  left  me  again;  opened  the  door  of  the  room  and 
looked  out  cautiously  into  the  passage;  closed  it  once  more, 
and  came  back. 

"  You  won  your  right  over  me,  Walter,"  he  said,  "  on 
the  day  when  you  saved  my  life.  It  was  yours  from  that 
moment,  when  you  pleased  to  take  it.  Take  it  now.  Yes! 
I  mean  what  I  say.  My  next  words,  as  true  as  the  good 
God  is  above  us,  will  put  my  life  into  your  hands." 

The  trembling  earnestness  with  which  he  uttered  this  ex- 
traordinary warning  carried  with  it  lo  my  mind  the  convic- 
tion that  he  spoke  the  truth. 

"  Mind  this!"  he  went  on,  shaking  his  hands  at  me  in 
the  vehemence  of  his  agitation.  "  I  hold  no  thread  in 
my  own  rnind,  between  that  man,  Fosco,  and  the  past  time 
which  I  call  back  to  me,  for  your  sake.  If  yoic  find  the 
thread,  keep  it  to  yourself — tell  me  nothing — on  my  knees, 
I  beg  and  pray,  let  me  be  ignorant,  let  me  be  innocent, 
let  me  be  blind  to  all  the  future,  as  1  am  now!" 

He  said  a  few  words  more,  hesitatingly  and  disconnect- 
edly, then  stopped  again. 

I  saw  that  the  effort  of  expressing  himself  in  English,  on 
an  occasion  too  serious  to  permit  him  the  use  of  the  quaint 
turns  and  phrases  of  his  ordinary  vocabulary,  was  painfully 
increasing  the  difficulty  he  had  felt  from  the  first  in  speak- 
ing to  me  at  all.  Having  learned  to  read  and  understand 
his  native  language  (though  not  to  speak  it)  in  the  earlier 
days  of  our  intimate  companionship,  1  now  suggested  to 
him  that  he  should  express  himself  in  Italian,  while  1  used 
English  in  putting  any  questions  which  might  be  necessary 
to  my  enlightenment.  He  accepted  the  proposal.  In  his 
smooth-flowing  language — spoken  with  a  vehernent  agitu- 


561  T7TE    WOMAN    TN    WHITE. 

tion  vrhich  betrayed  itself  in  the  perpetual  working  of  his 
features,  in  the  wildness  and  tlie  suddenness  of  his  foreign 
gesticulations,  but  never  in  the  raising  of  his  voice—] 
now  heard  the  words  which  armed  me  to  meet  the  last 
struggle  that  is  left  for  this  story  to  record.* 

"  You  know  nothing  of  my  motive  for  leaving  Italy/' 
he  began,  "  except  that  it  was  for  political  reasons.  If  1 
had  been  driven  to  this  country  by  the  persecution  of  my 
government,  I  should  not  have  kept  those  reasons  a  secret 
from  you  or  from  any  one.  I  have  concealed  them  be- 
cause  no  gjovernment  authority  has  pronounced  the  sentence 
of  my  exile.  You  have  heard,  Walter,  of  the  political  Soci- 
eties that  are  hidden  in  every  great  city  on  the  continent  of 
Europe?  To  one  of  those  Societies  I  belonged  in  Italy — 
and  belong  still,  in  England.  When  I  came  to  this  coun- 
try, 1  came  by  the  direction  of  my  Chief.  1  was  over  zeal- 
ous, in  my  younger  time;  I  ran  the  risk  of  compromisnig 
myself  and  others.  For  those  reasons,  I  was  ordered  to 
emigrate  to  England,  and  to  wait.  1  emigrated — I  have 
waited — 1  wait,  still.  To-morrow  I  may  be  called  away: 
ten  years  hence  I  may  be  called  away.  It  is  all  one  to  me 
— 1  am  here,  I  support  myself  by  teaching,  and  1  wait.  I 
violate  no  oath  (you  shall  hear  why  presently)  in  making 
my  confidence  complete  by  telling  you  the  name  of  the  So- 
ciety to  which  I  belong.  All  I  do  is  to  put  my  life  in  your 
hands.  If  what  1  say  to  you  now  is  ever  known  by  others 
to  have  passed  my  lips,  as  certainly  as  we  two  sit  here,  I 
am  a  dead  man. 

He  whispered  the  next  words  in  my  ear.  1  keep  the 
secret  which  he  thus  communicated.  The  Society  to  which 
he  belonged  will  be  sufficiently  individualized  for  the  pur- 
poses of  these  pages  if  1  call  it  "  The  Brotherhood,"  on  the 
few  occasions  when  any  reference  to  the  subject  will  be 
needed  in  this  place. 

"  The  object  of  the  Brotherhood,"  Pesca  went  on,  "  is, 
briefly,  the  object  of  other  political  societies  of  the  same 
8ort — the  destruction  of  tyranny,  and  the  assertion  of  the 

*  It  is  only  right  to  mention  here,  that  I  repeat  Pesca's  statement 
to  me,  with  the  careful  suppressions  and  alterations  which  the  sen 
ous  nature  of  the  subject  and  my  own  sense  of  duty  to  iny  f Vicnc' 
demand.  ]\Iy  first  and  last  concealments  from  the  readci'  arc  lluwe 
wnic  h  caution  renders  absolutely  necessary  in  this  portion  of  tJic 
narrative. 


THK    WOMAN    TN    WHITE.  565 

rights  of  the  people.  The  principles  of  the  Brotheihood 
are  two.  So  long  as  a  man's  life  is  useful,  or  even  harm- 
less only,  he  has  the  right  to  enjoy  it.  But  if  his  life  in- 
flicts injury  on  the  well-being  of  his  fellow-nieii,  from  that 
moment  he  forfeits  the  right,  and  it  is  not  only  no  crime, 
but  a  positive  merit  to  deprive  him  of  it.  It  is  not  for  me 
to  say  in  what  frightful  circumstances  of  o])pression  and 
suffering  this  Society  took  its  rise.  It  is  not  for  you  to 
say — you  Englishmen,  who  have  conquered  your  f/cadom  so 
long  ago  that  you  have  conveniently  forgotten  what  blood 
you  shed,  and  what  extremities  you  proceeded  to,  in  the 
conquering — it  is  not  for  you  to  say  how  far  the  worst  of 
all  exasperations  may,  or  may  not,  carry  the  maddened 
men  of  an  enslaved  nation.  The  iron  that  has  entered 
into  onr  souls  has  gone  too  deep  for  you  to  find  it.  Leave 
the  refugee  alone!  Laugh  at  him,  distrust  him,  open  your 
eyes  in  wonder  at  that  secret  self  which  smolders  in  him, 
sometimes  under  the  every-day"respeotability  aud  tranquillity 
oi  a  man  like  me;  sometimes  under  the  grinding  poverty, 
the  fierce  squalor,  of  men  less  lucky,  less  pliable,  less 
patient  than  I  am — but  judge  us  not!  In  the  time  of  your 
first  Charles  you  might  have  done  us  justice;  the  long  lux- 
ury of  your  own  freedom  has  made  you  incapable  of  doing 
us  justice  now." 

All  the  deepest  feelings  of  his  nature  seemed  to  force 
themselves  to  the  surface  in  those  words;  all  his  heart  was 
poured  out  to  me,  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives — but  still 
his  voice  never  rose;  still  his  dread  of  the  terrible  revela- 
tion he  was  making  to  me  never  left  him. 

"  So  far,"  he  resumed,  "  you  think  the  Society  like  other 
Societies.  Its  object  (in  your  English  opinion)  is  anarchy 
and  revolution.  It  takes  the  life  of  a  bad  King  or  a  bad 
Minister,  as  if  the  one  and  the  other  were  dangerous  like 
wild  beasts  to  be  shot  at  the  first  opportunity.  I  grant 
you  this.  But  the  laws  of  the  Brotherhood  are  the  laws  of 
no  other  political  society  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  The 
members  are  not  known  to  one  another.  There  is  a  Presi- 
dent in  Italy;  there  are  Presidents  abroad.  Each  of  these 
has  his  Secretary.  The  Presidents  and  the  Secretaries 
know  the  members;  but  the  members,  among  themselves, 
are  all  strangers,  until  their  Chiefs  see  fit,  in  the  political 
necessity  of  tiie  timf\,  or  in  the  private  necessity  of  the  So- 
ciety, to  make  them   known   to  each  other.     With  such  a 


J> 


566  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

safeguard  as  this,  there  is  no  oath  among  us  on  admittance. 
We  are  identified  with  the  Brol:hi'rhood  b}'  a  secret  mark, 
wiiich  we  all  bear,  which  lusts  while  our  lives  last.  We 
are  told  to  go  about  our  ordinary  business,  and  to  report 
ourselves  to  the  President,  or  the  Secretary,  four  times  a 
year,  in  the  event  of  our  services  being  required.  We  are 
warned,  if  we  betray  the  Brotherhood,  or  if  we  injure  it  by 
serving  other  interests,  that  we  die  by  the  principles  of  the 
Brotherhood — die  by  the  hand  of  a  stranger  who  may  be 
sent  from  the  other  end  of  the  world  to  strike  the  blow — or 
by  the  hand  of  our  own  bosom-friend,  who  nniy  have  been 
a  member  unknown  to  us  through  all  the  years  of  our  in- 
timacy. Sometimes  the  death  is  delayed;  sometimes  it  fol- 
lows close  on  the  treaoher}'.  It  is  our  first  business  to  know 
how  to  wait,  our  second  business  to  know  how  to  obey  when 
the  word  is  spoken.  Some  of  us  may  wait  our  lives  through, 
and  may  not  be  wanted.  Some  of  us  may  be  called  to  the 
work,  or  to  the  preparation  for  the  v/ork,  the  very  day  of 
our  admission.  I  myself — the  little,  easy,  cheerful  man 
you  know  who  of  his  own  accord  would  hardly  lift  up  his 
handkerchief  to  strike  down  the  fly  that  buzzes  about  hits 
face — I,  in  my  younger  time,  under  provocation  so  dreadful 
that  I  will  not  tell  you  of  it,  entered  the]3rotherhood  by  an 
i:n pulse,  as  1  might  have  killed  myself  by  an  impulse.  1 
must  remain  in  it,  now — it  has  got  me,  whatever  1  may 
lijink  of  it  in  my  better  cicumstances  and  my  cooler  man- 
hood, to  my  dying  day.  While  I  was  still  in  Italy,  1  was 
chosen  Secretary;  and  all  the  members  of  that  time,  who 
were  brought  face  to  face  with  my  President,  were  brought 
face  to  face  also  with  7)ie. " 

I  began  to  understand  him;  I  saw  the  end  toward  which 
his  extraordinary  disclosure  was  now  tending.  He  waited  a 
moment,  watching  me  earnestly — watching,  till  he  had 
evidently  guessed  what  was  passing  in  my  mind,  before  he 
resumed. 

"  You  have  drawn  your  own  conclusions  already,"  he 
said.  "  I  see  it  in  your  face.  Tell  me  nothing;  keep  me 
out  of  the  secret  of  your  thoughts.  Let  me  make  my  one 
last  sacrifice  of  myself,  for  your  sake — and  then  have  done 
with  this  subject,  never  to  return  to  it  again. ^' 

He  signed  to  me  not  to  answer  him — rose — removed  his 
coat — and  rolled  uj)  the  shirt  sleeve  on  his  left  arm. 

"  I  promised  you  that  this  confidence  should  be  com- 


l-HE    WOMAN    IK    wJhtE.  567 

plete/'  he  whispered,  speaking  close  at  my  ear,  with  liis 
eyes  looking  watchfully  at  the  door.  "  Whatever  comes 
of  it,  you  shall  not  reproach  me  with  having  hidden  any- 
thing from  you  which  it  was  necessary  to  your  interests  to 
know.  1  have  said  that  the  Brotherhood  identifies  its  mem- 
bers by  a  mark  that  lasts  for- life.  See  the  place,  and  the 
mark  on  it,  for  yourself. " 

He  raised  his  bare  arm,  aud  showed  me,  high  on  the 
upper  part  of  it  and  on  the  inner  side,  a  brand  deeply 
burned  in  the  llesh,  and  stained  of  a  bright  blood-red  color. 
1  abstain  from  describing  the  device  which  the  brand  rep- 
resented. It  will  be  sufficient  to  say  that  it  was  circular  in 
form,  aud  so  small  tliat  it  would  have  been  completely  cov- 
ered by  a  shilling  coin. 

"  A  man  who  has  this  mark  branded  in  this  place,"  he 
said,  covering  his  arm  again.  "  is  a  member  of  the  Brother- 
hood. A  man  who  has  been  false  to  the  Brotherhood  is 
discovered  sooner  or  later,  by  the  Chiefs  who  know  him — 
Presidents  or  Secretaries,  as  the  case  my  be.  And  a  man 
discovered  by  the  Chiefs  is  dead.  No  human  Ic/ws  can 
protect  him.  Kemember  what  you  have  seen  and  heard; 
draw  what  conclusions  you  like;  act  as  you  please.  But 
in  the  name  of  God,  whatever  you  discover,  whatever  you 
do,  tell  me  nothing!  Let  me  remain  free  from  a  responsi- 
bility which  it  horrifies  me  to  think  of — which  I  know,  in 
my  conscience,  is  not  my  responsibility  now.  For  the  last 
time,  I  say  it — on  my  honor  as  a  gentleman,  on  my  oath 
as  a  Christian,  if  the  man  you  pointed  out  at  the  Opera 
knows  me,  he  is  so  altered,  or  so  disguised,  that  I  do  not 
know  him.  1  am  igiiorant  of  his  proceedings  or  his  pur- 
poses in  England — 1  never  saw  him,  I  never  heard  the  name 
he  goes  by,  to  my  knowledge,  before  to-night.  I  say  no 
more.  Leave  me  a  little,  Walter:  1  am  overpowered  by 
what  has  happened;  I  am  shaken  by  what  I  have  said. 
Let  my  try  to  be  like  myself  again,  when  we  meet  next." 

Hedropped  iiitoa  chair;  and,  turning  away  from  me,  hid 
his  face  in  his  hands.  1  g'utiy  opened  the  door,  so  as  not 
to  disturb  him — and  spake  my  few  parting  words  in  low 
tones,  which  he  might  hear  or  not,  as  he  pleased. 

"  1  will  keep  the  memory  of  to-night  in  my  heart  of 
hearts."  I  said.  "You  shall  never  repent  the  trust  you 
have  reposed  in  nie.  May  I  come  to  you  to-morrow?  May 
1  come  as  early  as  nine  o'clock?" 


668  THE    WOilAN    IN"    WHITE. 

"  Yes,  Walter,"  he  replied,  looking  up  at  me  kindly, 
and  speaking  in  English  once  more,  as  if  his  one  anxiety, 
now,  was  to  get  back  to  our  foimer  relations  toward  each 
other.  "  Come  to  my  little  bit  of  breakfast,  before  1  go 
my  ways  among  the  pupils  that  1  teach.*' 

"  Good-night,  Pesca." 

*'  Good-Tiight,  my  friend.'' 


VI. 

My  first  conviction,  as  soon  as  I  found  myself  outside 
the  house,  was  that  no  alternative  was  left  me  but  to  act  at 
once  on  the  information  I  had  received— to  make  sure  of 
the  Count,  that  night,  or  to  risk  the  loss,  if  1  only  delayed 
till  the  morning,  of  Laura's  last  chance.  I  looked  at  my 
watch:  it  was  ten  o'clock. 

Not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  crossed  my  mind  of  the  purpose 
for  which  the  Count  had  left  the  theater.  His  escape  from 
us  that  evening  was,  beyond  all  question,  the  preliminary 
only  to  his  escape  from  London.  The  mark  of  the  Brother- 
hood was  on  his  arm — I  felt  as  certain  of  it  as  if  he  had 
shown  me  the  brand— and  the  betrayal  of  the  Brotherhood 
was  on  his  conscience — 1  had  seen  it  in  his  recognition  of 
Pesca. 

It  was  easy  to  understand  why  that  recognition  had  not 
been  mutual.  A  man  of  the  Count's  character  would 
never  risk  the  terrible  consequences  of  turning  spy  without 
looking  to  his  personal  security  quite  as  carefully  as  he 
looked  to  his  golden  reward.  The  shaven  face  which  I  had 
pointed  out  at  the  Opera  might  have  been  covered  by  a 
beard  in  Pesca's  time;  his  dark  brown  hair  might  be  a 
wig;  his  name  was  evidently  a  false  one.  The  accident  of 
time  might  have  helped  him  as  well — his  immense 
corpulence  might  have  come  with  his  later  years.  There 
was  every  reason  why  Pesca  should  not  have  known  him 
again — every  reason,  also,  why  he  should  have  known  Pesca, 
whose  singular  personal  appearance  made  a  marked  man 
of  him,  go  where  he  might. 

I  have  said  that  1  felt  certain  of  the  purpose  in  the 
Count's  mind  when  he  escaped  us  at  the  theater.  How 
could  I  doubt  it,  when  I  saw,  with  my  own  eyes,  that  he 
believed  himself,  in  spite  of  the  change  in  his  appearance. 


/  THE    WOMAN-    IN    WHITE.  509 

to  have  been  recognized  by  Pesca,  and  to  be  therefore  in 
danger  of  his  life?  If  I  could  get  speech  of  him  that  night, 
if  1  could  show  him  that  I,  too,  knew  of  the  mortal  peril 
in  which  he  stood,  what  result  would  follow?  Plainly  this. 
One  of  us  must  be  master  of  the  situation — one  of  must  in- 
equitably be  at  the  mercy  of  the  other. 

I  owed  it  to  myself  to  consider  the  chances  against  nie, 
before  I  confronted  them.  1  owed  it  to  my  wife  to  do  all 
that  lay  in  my  power  to  lessen  the  risk. 

The  chances  against  me  wanted  no  reckoning  up;  they 
were  all  merged  in  one.  If  the  Count  discovered,  by  my 
own  avowal,  that  the  direct  way  to  his  safety  lay  through 
my  life,  he  was  probably  the  last  man  in  existence  who 
would  shrink  from  throwing  me  off  my  guard  and  taking 
that  way,  when  he  had  me  alone  within  his  reach. 
The  only  means  of  defense  against  him  on  which  1  could 
at  all  rely  to  lessen  the  risk,  presented  themselves,  after  a 
little  careful  thinking,  clearly  enough.  Before  I  made  any 
personal  acknowledgment  of  my  discovery  in  his  pres- 
ence, 1  must  place  the  discovery  itself  where  it  would 
be  ready  for  instant  use  against  him,  and  safe  from 
any  attempt  at  suppression  on  his  part.  If  I  laid  the  mine 
under  his  feet  before  I  approached  him,  and  If  I  left  in- 
structions with  a  third  person  to  fire  it  on  the  expiration  of 
a  certain  time,  unless  directions  to  the  contrai*y  were  pre- 
viously received  under  my  own  hand,  or  from  my  own  lips 
— in  that  event,  the  Count's  security  was  absolutely  depend- 
ent upon  mine,  and  I  might  hold  the  vantage-ground  over 
him  securely,  even  in  his  own  house. 

This  idea  occurred  to  me  when  I  was  close  to  the  new 
lodgings  which  we  had  taken  on  returning  from  the  sea- 
side. I  went  in,  without  disturbing  any  one,  by  the  help 
of  my  key.  A  light  was  in  the  hall;  and  I  stole  up  with 
it  to  my  work-room,  to  make  my  preparations,  and  abso- 
lutely to  commit  myself  to  an  interview  with  the  Count,  be- 
fore either  Laura  or  Marian  could  have  the  slightest  suspi- 
cion of  what  I  intended  to  do. 

A  letter  addressed  to  Pesca  represented  the  surest  meas- 
ure of  precaution  which  it  was  now  possible  for  me  to  take. 
1  wrote  as  follows: 

"  The  man  whom  I  pointed  out  to  you  at  the  Opera  is  a 
member  of  the  Brotherhood,  and  has  been  false  to  liis  trust. 


570  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Tut  both  these  assertions  to  the  test  instantly.  You  know 
tlio  name  he  goes  by  in  England.  His  address  is  No.  5 
Forest  Road,  St.  John's  Wood.  On  tlielove  you  once  bore 
me,  use  the  power  intrusted  to  you,  without  mercy  and 
vviihoufc  delay,  against  that  man,  I  have  risked  all,  and 
lost  all — and  the  forfeit  of  my  failure  has  been  paid  with 
my  life.'^ 

I  signed  and  dated  these  lines,  inclosed  them  in  an  en- 
velope, and  sealed  it  up.  On  the  outside,  I  wrote  this  di- 
rection: "  Keep  the  inclosure  unopened  until  nine  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning.  If  you  do  not  hear  from  me,  or  see 
me,  before  that  time,  break  the  seal  when  the  clock  strikes, 
and  read  the  contents."  1  added  my  initials;  and  protect- 
ed the  whole  by  inclosing  it  in  a  second  sealed  enveloije, 
addi'essed  to  Peseu  at  his  lodgings. 

Nothing  remained  to  be  done  after  this  but  to  find  the 
means  of  sending  my  letter  to  its  destination  immediately. 
I  should  then  have  accomplished  all  that  lay  in  my  power. 
If  anything  happened  to  me  in  the  Count's  house,  I  had 
novv  provided  for  his  answering  it  with  his  life. 

That  the  means  of  preventing  his  escape  under  any  cir- 
cumstances whatever  were  at  Pesca's  disposal,  if  he  chose 
to  exert  them,  I  did  not  for  an  iristant  doubt.  The  extra- 
ordinary anxiety  which  he  had  expressed  to  remani  unen- 
lightened as  to  the  Count's  identity — or,  in  other  words,  to 
be  left  uncertain  enongh  about  facts  to  justify  him  to  his 
own  conscience  in  remaining  passive — betrayed  plainly  that 
the  means  of  exercising  the  terrible  justice  of  the  Brother- 
hood were  ready  to  his  hand,  although,  as  a  naturally  hu- 
mane man,  he  had  shrunk  from  plainly  saying  as  much  in 
my  presence.  The  deadly  certainty  with  which  the  veng- 
eance of  foreign  political  societies  can  hunt  down  a  traitor 
to  the  cause,  hide  himself  where  he  may,  had  been  too  often 
exemplified,  even  in  my  superficial  experience,  to  allow  of 
any  doubt.  Considering  the  subject  only  as  a  reader  of 
newspa^jers,  cases  recurred  to  my  memory,  both  in  London 
and  in  Paris,  of  foreigners  found  stabbed  in  the  streets, 
whose  assassins  could  never  be  traced — of  bodies  and  parts 
of  bodies  thrown  into  the  Thames  and  the  Seine,  by  hands 
that  could  never  be  discovered — of  deaths  by  secret  violence 
which  could  oidy  be  accounted  for  in  one  way.  I  have  dis- 
guised notliing  relating  to  myself  in  these  pages — and  I  do 


THE    WOMAN"    IN"    WHITE.  571 

not  disguise  here,  that  I  believed  1  had  written  Count 
Fosco's  death-warrant,  if  the  fatal  emergency  happened 
which  authorized  Pesca  to  open  my  inclosure. 

1  left  my  room  to  go  down  to  the  ground-floor  of  the 
house,  and  speak  to  the  landlord  about  finding  me  a  mes- 
senger. He  happened  to  be  ascending  the  stairs  at  the 
time,  and  we  met  on  the  landing.  His  son,  a  quick  lad, 
was  the  messenger  he  proposed  to  me,  on  hearing  what  I 
wanted.  We  had  the  boy  upstairs;  and  I  gave  him  his  di- 
rections. He  was  to  take  the  letter  in  a  cab,  to  put  it  into 
Professor  Pesca 's  own  liands,  and  to  bring  me  back  a  line 
of  acknowledgment  from  that  gentleman;  returning  in  the. 
cab,  and  keeping  it  at  the  door  for  my  use.  It  was  then 
nearly  half-past  ten.  I  calculated  that  the  boy  might  be 
back  in  twenty  minutes;  and  that  I  might  drive  to  St. 
John's  Wood,  on  his  return,  in  twenty  minutes  more. 

When  the  lad  had  departed  on  his  errand,  1  returned  to 
my  own  room  for  a  little  while  to  put  certain  papers  in 
order,  so  that  they  might  be  easily  found,  in  case  of  the 
worst.  The  key  of  the  old-fashioned  bureau  in  which  the 
papers  were  kept  I  sealed  up,  and  left  it  on  my  table,  with 
Marian's  name  written  on  the  outside  of  the  little  packet. 
This  done,  1  went  down-stairs  to  the  sitting-room,  in  which 
I  expected  to  find  Laura  and  Marian  awaiting  my  return 
from  the  Opera.  1  felt  my  hand  trembling  for  the  first 
time,  when  I  laid  it  on  the  lock  of  the  door. 

No  one  was  in  the  room  but  Marian.  She  was  reading; 
and  she  looked  at  her  watch,  in  surprise,  when  I  came  in. 

"How  early  you  are  back!"  she  said.  "You  must 
have  come  away  before  the  opera  was  over." 

"  Yes,"  1  replied;  "  neither  Pesca  nor  1  waited  for  the 
end.      Where  is  Laura?" 

"  She  had  one  of  her  bad  headaches  this  evening;  and  I 
advised  her  to  go  to  bed  when  we  had  done  tea." 

I  left  the  room  again,  on  the  pretext  of  wishing  to  see 
whether  Laura  was  asleep.  Marian's  quick  eyes  wore  be- 
ginning to  look  inquiringly  at  my  face;  Marian's  quick  in- 
stinct was  beginning  to  discover  that  1  had  something 
weighing  on  my  mind. 

When  1  entered  the  bed-chamber,  and  softly  approached 
the  bedside  by  the  dim  flicker  of  the  night-lamp,  my  wife 
was  asleep. 

We  had  not  been  married  quite  a  month  yet.     If  my 


572  THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE. 

heart  was  heavy,  if  my  reBoIution  for  a  moment  faltered 
again,  when  I  looked  at  her  face  turned  faithfully  to  tnij 
pillow  in  her  sleep — when  I  saw  her  hand  resting  open  on 
the  coverlet,  as  if  it  was  waiting  unconsciously  for  mine — 
surely  there  was  some  excuse  for  me?  I  only  allowed  my- 
self a  few  minutes  to  kneel  down  at  the  bedside,  and  to  look 
close  at  her — so  close  that  her  breath,  as  it  came  and  went, 
fluttered  on  my  face.  I  only  touched  her  hand  and  her 
cheek  with  my  lips,  at  parting.  She  stirred  in  her  sleep, 
and  murmured  my  name — but  without  waking.  I  lingered 
for  an  instant  at  the  door  to  look  at  her  again.  "  God 
bless  and  keep  you,  my  darling!"  ^  whispered — and  left 
her. 

iVTarian  was  at  the  stair-head  waiting  for  me.  She  had 
a  folded  slip  of  paper  in  her  hand. 

"  The  land  lord's  son  has  brought  this  for  you,"  the  said. 
"  He  has  got  a  cab  at  the  door — he  says  you  ordered  him 
to  keep  it  at  your  disposal." 

"  Quite  right,  Marian.  I  want  the  cab;  I  am  going  out 
again." 

I  descended  the  stairs  as  I  spoke,  and  looked  into  the 
sitting-room  to  read  the  slip  of  paper  by  the  light  on  the 
table.  It  contained  these  two  sentences,  in  Pesca's  hand- 
writing: 

*'  Your  letter  is  received.  If  I  don't  see  you  before  the 
time  you  mention,  I  will  break  the  seal  when  the  clock 
strikes." 

1  placed  the  paper  in  my  pocket-book,  and  made  for  tlie 
door.  Marian  met  me  on  the  tiireshold,  and  pushed  nu- 
back  into  the  room  where  the  candle-light  fell  full  on  my 
face.  She  held  me  by  both  hands,  and  her  eyes  fastened 
searchingly  on  mine. 

"  I  see!"  she  said,  in  a  low,  eagei'  whisper.  "  You  are 
trying  the  last  chance  to-night." 

"  Yes — the  last  chance  and  tiie  best,"  I  whispered  back. 

"  Not  alone!  Oh,  Walter,  for  God's  sake,  not  alone! 
Let  me  go  with  you.  Don't  refuse  me  because  I'm  only 
a  woman.  I  must  go!  1  will  go!  I'll  wait  outside  in  the 
cab!" 

It  was  my  turn  now  to  hold  Iter.  She  tried  to  break 
away  from  me,  and  get  down  first  to  the  door. 


THE    WOMAN    IN     WHTTR.  573 

"  If  you  want  to  help  me,"  1  said,  "  stop  hc-rp,  and  sleep 
in  my  wife's  room  to-night.  Only  let  me  go  a^ay,  willi 
my  mind  easy  about  Laura,  and  I  answer  for  everyihing 
else.  Come,  Marian,  give  me  a  kiss,  and  show  that  you 
have  the  courage  to  wait  till  1  come  back." 

I  dared  not  allow  her  time  to  say  a  word  more.  She 
tried  to  hold  me  again.  I  unclasped  her  hands — and  was 
out  of  the  room  in  a  moment.  The  boy  below  heard  me 
on  the  stairs,  and  opened  the  hall  door.  I  jumped  into 
the  cab  before  the  driver  could  get  off  the  box.  "  Forest 
Road,  St.  John's  Wood,"  I  called  to  him  through  the  front 
window.  "Double  fare,  if  you  get  there  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour."  "I'll  do  it,  sir."  1  looked  at  my  watch. 
Eleven  o'clock — not  a  minute  to  lose. 

The  rapid  motion  of  the  cab,  the  sense  that  every  instant 
now  was  bringing  me  nearer  to  the  Count,  the  conviction 
that  I  was  embarked  at  last,  without  let  or  hinderance,  on 
my  hazardous  enterprise,  heated  me  into  such  a  fever  of 
excitement  that  1  shouted  to  the  man  to  go  faster  and 
faster.  As  we  left  the  streets,  and  crossed  St.  John's  Wood 
Road,  my  impatience  so  completely  overpotvered  me  that  I 
stood  up  in  the  cab  and  stretched  my  head  out  of  the  win- 
dow, to  see  the  end  of  the  journey  before  we  reached  it. 
Just  as  a  church  clock  in  the  distance  struck  the  quarter 
past,  we  turned  into  the  Forest  Road.  I  stopped  the  driver 
a  little  away  from  the  Count's  house — paid  and  dismissed 
him — and  walked  on  to  the  door. 

As  1  approached  the  garden  gate,  1  saw  another  person 
advancing  toward  it  also,  from  the  direction  opposite  to 
mine.  We  met  under  the  gas-lamp  in  the  road,  and  looked 
at  each  other.  1  instantly  recognized  the  light-haired 
foreigner,  with  the  scar  on  his  cheek;  and  I  thought  he  rec- 
ognized me.  He  said  nothing;  and,  instead  of  stopping  at 
the  house,  as  1  did,  he  slowly  walked  on.  Was  he  in  the 
Forest  Road  by  accident?  Or  had  he  followed  the  Count 
home  from  the  Opera? 

I  did  not  pursue  those  questions.  After  waiting  a  little, 
till  the  foreigner  had  slowly  passed  out  of  sight,  I  rang  the 
gate  bell.  It  was  then  twenty  minutes  past  eleven — late 
enough  to  make  it  quite  easy  for  the  Count  to  get  rid  of 
me  by  the  excuse  that  he  was  in  bed. 

The  only  way  of  providing  against  this  contingency  was 
to  send  in  my  name,  without  asking  any  preliminary  qu^a- 


574  THE     T^.O^rAN"    IN    WHITE. 

Slons,  arid  to  let  hiin  know,  at  the  same  time,  that,  I  had  a 
f'.erious  motive  for  wishing  to  see  hiui  at  that  late  hour. 
Accordingly,  while  I  was  waiting,  1  took  out  my  card,  and 
wrote  under  my  narao,  "  On  important  business."  The 
maid-servant  answered  the  door  while  I  was  writing  the 
last  word  in  pencil,  and  asl^ed  me  distrustfully  what  I 
"  pleased  to  want." 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  take  that  to  your  master,"  I  replied, 
giving  her  the  card. 

I  saw,  by  the  girl's  hesitation  of  manner,  that  if  I  had 
asked,  for  the  Count  in  the  first  instance,  she  would  only 
have  followed  her  instructions  by  telling  me  he  was  not  at 
home.  She  was  staggered  by  the  confidence  with  which  i 
gave  her  the  card.  After  staging  at  me  in  great  perturba- 
tion, she  went  back  into  the  house  with  my  message,  clos- 
ing tlie  door,  and  leaving  me  to  wait  in  the  garden. 

In  a  minute  or  so  she  re-appeared.  *'  Her  master's  com- 
pliments, and  would  I  be  so  obliging  as  to  say  what  my  bus- 
iness was?"  "  Take  my  compliments  back,"  I  replied; 
"  and  say  that  the  business  can  not  be  mentioned  to  a<iy 
one  but  your  master."  She  left  me  again,  again  returned, 
and  this  time  asked  me  to  walk  in. 

1  followed  her  at  once.  lu  another  moment  1  was  inside 
the  Count's  house. 


VII. 

There  was  no  lamp  in  the  hall;  but  by  the  dim  light  of 
the  iitcben  candle  which  the  girl  had  brought  upstairs  with 
her,  I  saw  a)i  elderly  lady  steal  noiselessly  out  of  a  back 
room  ou  (he  grouiid-fioor.  She  cast  one  viperish  look  at 
me  as  I  entered  the  hall,  but  said  nothing,  and  went  slowly 
upstaii's,  without  returning  my  bow.  My  familiarity  with 
Marian's  jouriial  sufTiciently  assured  me  that  the  elderly 
lady  Was  Mme.  Fosoo. 

The  servant  led  me  to  the  room  which  the  Countess  had 
just  left.  I  entered  it;  and  found  myself  face  to  face  with 
the  Count. 

He  was  still  in  his  evening-dress,  except  his  coat,  which 
he  had  thrown  across  a  chair.  His  shirt-sleeves  were  turned 
up  at  the  wrists — but  no  higher.  A  carpet-bag  was  on  one 
side  of  him,  and  a  box  on  the  other.  Books,  papers,  and 
articles  of  wearing  apparel  were  scattered  about  the  room. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  575 

On  a  table,  at  one  side  of  tii?  Joor,  stood  the  cage,  so  well 
known  to  me  b}'  (ieseription,  which  contained  his  white 
mice.  The  ca.iarics  and  the  co(;katoo  were  probably  in 
some  other  room.  He  was  seated  before  the  box,  packing 
it,  when  I  went  in,  and  ro^e  wiih  some  papers  in  his  hand 
to  receive  me.  His  face  still  betrayed  plain  traces  of  the 
shock  that  had  overwhelmed  him  at  the  Opera.  His  fat 
cheeks  hung  loose;  his  cold  gray  eyes  were  furtively  vigi- 
hxTit;  his  voice,  look,  and  manner  were  all  sharply  suspicious 
Alike,  as  he  advanced  a  step  to  meet  me,  and  requested^ 
with  distant  civility,  that  I  would  take  a  chair. 

"  You  come  here  on  business,  sir?"  he  said.  "I  am  at 
a  loss  to  know  what  that  business  can  possibly  be." 

The  unconcealed  curiosity  with  which  he  looked  hard  in 
my  face  while  he  spoke,  convinced  me  that  1  had  passefl 
unnoticed  by  him  at  the  Opera.  He  had  seen  Pesca  first; 
and  from  that  moment,  till  he  left  the  theater,  he  had  evi- 
dently seen  nothing  else.  My  name  would  necessarily  sug- 
gest to  him  that  I  had  not  come  into  his  house  wilh  other 
than  a  hostile  purpose  toward  himself;  but  lie  appeared  to 
be  utterly  ignorant,  thus  *  m-,  of  the  real  nature  of  my  er- 
rand. 

"  I  am  fortunate  in  finding  you  here  to-night,"  1  said. 
"  You  seem  to  be  on  the  point  of  taking  a  journey?" 

"  Is  your  business  connected  with  my  journey?" 

"  In  some  degree." 

"  In  what  degree?     Do  you  know  where  I  am  going  to?" 

"  No.     I  only  know  why  you  are  leaving  Londoi]." 

He  slipped  by  me  with  the  quickness  of  thought;  locked 
the  door  of  the  room;  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"  You  and  I,  Mr.  Hartright,  are  excellently  well  ac- 
quainted with  one  another  by  reputation,"  he  said.  "  Did 
it,  by  any  chance,  occur  to  you  when  you  came  to  this 
house  that  1  was  not  the  sort  of  man  you  could  trifle  with?" 

"  It  did  occur  to  me,"  I  replied.  "  And  I  have  not 
come  to  trifle  with  you.  I  am  here  on  a  matter  of  life  and 
death — and  if  that  door  which  you  have  locked  was  open  at 
this  moment,  nothing  you  could  say  or  do  would  induce  me 
to  pass  through  it." 

I  walked  further  into  the  room  and  stood  opposite  to 
him,  on  the  rug  before  the  fire-place.  He  drew  a  chair  in 
front  of  the  door,  and  s-at  down  on  it,  with  his  left  arm 
resting  on  the  table.     The  cage  with  the  white  mice  waa 


676  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

close  to  him;  and  the  little  creatures  scampered  out  of  their 
sleeping-place,  as  his  heavy  arm  shook  the  table,  and 
peered  at  him  thi'ough  the  gaps  in  the  smartly-painted  wires. 

"  Oil  a  matter  of  life  and  death?''  he  repeated  to  him- 
self. "Those  words  are  more  serious,  perhaps,  than  you 
think.      What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say." 

The  perspiration  broke  out  thickly  on  his  broad  forehead. 
His  left  hand  stole  over  the  edge  of  the  table.  There  was 
a  drawer  in  it,  v/ith  a  lock,  and  the  key  was  in  the  lock. 
Hia  finger  and  thumb  closed  over  the  key,  but  did  not 
turn  it. 

"  So  you  know  why  I  am  leaving  London?"  he  went  on. 

"Tell  me  the  reason,  if  you  please."  He  turned  the 
key,  and  unlocked  the  drawer  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  can  do  better  than  that,"  I  replied;  "  I  can  show 
you  the  reason,  if  you  like." 

"  How  can  you  show  it?" 

"  You  have  got  your  coat  off,"  1  said.  "  Roll  up  the 
shirt-sleeve  on  your  left  arm,  and  you  will  see  it  there." 

The  same  livid,  leaden  change  passed  over  his  face,  which 
1  had  seen  pass  over  it  at  the  theater.  The  deadly  glitter 
in  his  eyes  shone  steady  and  straight  into  mine.  He  said 
nothing.  But  his  left  hand  slowly  opened  the  table-drawer, 
and  softly  slipped  into  it.  Tlie  harsh  grating  noise  of 
something  heavy  that  he  was  moving,  unseen  to  me,  sound- 
ed for  a  moment — then  ceased.  The  silence  that  followed 
was  so  intense,  that  the  faint  ticking  nibble  of  the  white 
mice  at  their  wires  was  distinctly  audible  where  I  stood. 

My  life  hung  by  a  thread,  and  I  knew  it.  At  that  final 
moment  I  thought  with  Jiis  mind;  1  felt  with  his  fingers; 
I  was  as  certain  as  if  1  had  seen  it,  of  what  he  kept  hidden 
from  me  in  the  drawer. 

"  Wait  a  little,"  I  said.  "  You  have  got  the  door  locked 
— you  see  1  don't  move — you  see  my  hands  are  empty. 
"Wait  a  little.     I  have  something  more  to  say." 

"  You  have  said  enough,"  he  replied,  with  a  sudden 
composure,  so  unnatural  and  so  ghastly,  that  it  tried  my 
nerves  as  no  outbreak  of  violence  could  have  tried  them. 
"  1  want  one  moment  for  my  own  thoughts,  if  you  please. 
Do  vou  guess  what  1  am  thinking  about?" 

•'"Pfrhapsldo." 

"'  i  am  thinking,"  he  remarked,  quietly,  "  whether  1 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  577 

shall  add  to  the  disorder  in  this  room  by  scattering  your 
brains  about  the  fire-place/' 

If  I  had  moved  at  that  moment,  1  saw  in  his  face  that 
he  would  have  done  it. 

"  I  advise  you  to  read  two  lines  of  writing  which  I  have 
about  me,"  I  rejoined,  "  before  you  finally  decide  that 
question. " 

The  proposal  appeared  to  excite  his  curiosity.  lie  nod- 
ded his  head.  I  tooiv  Pesca's  acknowledgment  of  the  re- 
«eipt  of  my  letter  out  of  my  pocket-book,  handed  it  to  him 
at  arms-length,  and  returned  to  my  former  position  in  front 
of  the  fire-place. 

He  read  the  lines  aloud:  "  '  Your  letter  is  received.  If 
I  don't  hear  from  you  before  the  time  you  mention,  I  will 
break  the  seal  when  the  clock  strikes.'  " 

Another  man  in  liis  position  would  have  needed  some 
explanation  of  those  words — the  Count  felt  no  such  neces- 
sity. One  reading  of  the  note  showed  him  the  precaution 
that  I  had  taken,  as  plainly  as  if  he  had  been  present  at 
the  time  when  I  adopted  it.  The  expression  of  his  face 
changed  on  the  instant;  and  his  hand  came  cut  of  the 
drawer  empty. 

"  I  don't  lock  up  my  drawer,  Mr.  Hartright,"  he  said; 
*'  and  1  don't  say  that  I  may  not  scatter  your  brains  about 
the  fire-place  yet.  But  I  am  a  just  man,  even  to  my  enemy 
— and  I  will  acknowledge  beforehand  that  they  are  cleverer 
brains  than  I  thought  them.  Come  to  the  point,  sir!  You 
want  something  of  me?" 

"  1  dc — and  1  mean  to  have  it.'* 

"  On  conditions?" 

"  On  no  conditions.'* 

His  hand  dropped  into  the  drawer  again. 

"Bah!  we  are  traveling  in  a  circle,"  he  said;  "  ar.d 
those  clever  brains  of  yours  are  in  danger  again.  Your 
tone  is  deplorably  imprudent,  sir — moderate  it  on  the  spot! 
The  risk  of  shooting  you  on  the  place  where  you  stand  is 
less  to  me  than  the  risk  of  letting  you  out  of  this  house  ex- 
cept on  conditions  that  1  dictate  and  approve.  Y'ou  have 
not  got  my  lamented  friend  to  deal  with  now — you  are  face 
to  face  with  Fosco!  If  the  lives  of  twenty  Mr!  Ilartrights 
were  the  stepping-stoiies  to  my  safety,  over  all  those  stones 
r  ivonld  go,  sustained  by  my  sublime  indifference,  self- 
balanced   by  my  impenetrable  calm.     Kespect  me,  if  you 


578  THE    WOMAN"    IN     WHITE. 

ipve  your  own  life!  I  summon  you  to  answer  three  ques- 
tions, before  you  open  your  lips  again.  Hear  tliem — ihey 
are  necessary  to  this  interview.  Answer  them — they  are 
necessary  to  me."  He  held  up  one  finger  of  his  vight  hand. 
"  First  questioni"  he  said.  "  You  come  here  possessed  of 
information  which  may  be  true  or  may  be  false—  where  did 
you  get  it?" 

"  I  decline  to  tell  you." 

"  No  matter:  I  shall  find  out.  If  that  information  is 
true — mind,  I  say,  with  the  whole  force  of  my  resolution, 
if — you  are  making  your  market  of  it  here  by  treachery  of 
your  own,  or  by  treachery  of  some  other  man.  I  note  that 
circumstance  for  future  use  in  my  memory  which  forgets 
nothing,  and  proceed."  He  held  up  another  finger. 
"  Second  question!  Those  lines  3^ou  invited  me  to  read  are 
without  signature.     Who  wrote  them?'* 

"  A  man  whom  /  have  every  reason  to  depend  on;  and 
whom  you  have  every  reason  to  fear." 

My  answer  reached  him  to  some  purpose.  His  left  hand 
trembled  audibly  in  the  drawer. 

"  How  long  do  you  give  me,"  he  asked,  putting  his 
third  question  in  a  quieter  tone,  "  before  the  clock  strikes 
and  the  seal  is  broken?" 

"  Time  enough  for  you  to  ccmeto  my  terms,"  1  replied. 

"  Give  me  a  jtliiiner  answer,  Mr.  Hartright.  "What  hour 
is  the  clock  to  strike?" 

"  Nine  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Nine  to-morrow  morning?  Yes,  yes — your  trap  is  laid 
for  me  before  I  can  get  my  passport  regulated  and  leave 
London.  It  is  not  earlier,  I  suppose?  We  will  see  about 
that  presently — I  can  keep  you  hostage  here,  and  bargain 
with  you  to  send  for  your  letter  before  I  let  you  go.  In  the 
meantime,  be  so  good,  next,  as  to  mention  your  terms." 

"  You  shall  hear  them.  They  are  simple,  and  soon 
stated.  You  know  whose  interests  1  represent  in  coming 
here?" 

He  smiled  with  the  most  supreme  comj^sure,  and  care- 
lessly waved  his  right  hand. 

"  I  consent  to  hazard  a  guess,"  he  said,  jeeringly.  "  A 
lady's  interests,  of  course!" 

'*  My  wife's  interests." 

He  looked  at  me  with  the  first  honest  expression  (hat  had 
crossed  txis  face  in  my  presence — an   expression  of  blank 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  579 

amazement.  1  could  see  that  1  sunk  in  bis  estimation,  aa 
a  dangerous  man,  from  that  moment.  He  shut  up  the 
drawer  at  once,  folded  his  arms  over  his  breast,  and  listened 
to  me  with  a  smile  of  satirical  attention. 

"You  are  well  enough  aware,"  1  went  on,  "of  the 
course  which  my  inquiries  have  taken  for  many  months 
past,  to  know  that  any  attempted  denial  of  plain  facts  will 
be  quite  useless  in  my  presence.  You  are  guilty  of  an  in- 
famous conspiracy.  And  the  gain  of  a  fortune  of  ten  thou- 
sand pounds  was  your  motive  for  it.*' 

He  said  nothing.  But  his  face  became  overclouded  sud- 
denly by  a  lowering  anxiety. 

"  Keep  your  gain,"  I  said.  (His  face  lightened  again 
immediately,  and  his  eyes  opened  on  me  in  wider  and  wider 
astonishment.)  "  I  am  not  here  todisgrace  myself  by  bar- 
gaining for  money  which  has  passed  through  your  hands, 
and  which  has  been  the  price  of  a  vile  crime — " 

"  Gently,  Mr.  Hartright.  Your  moral  clap-traps  have 
an  excellent  effect  in  England — keep  them  for  yourself  and 
your  own  countrymen,  if  you  please.  The  ten  thousand 
pounds  was  a  legacy  left  to  my  excellent  wife  by  the  late 
Mr.  Fairlie.  Place  the  affair  on  those  grounds,  and  I  will 
discuss  it  if  you  like.  To  a  man  of  my  sentiments,  how- 
ever, the  subject  is  deplorably  sordid.  1  prefer  to  pass  it 
over.  1  invite  you  to  resume  the  discussion  of  your  terms. 
What  do  you  demand?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  demand  a  full  confession  of  the 
conspiracy,  written  and  signed  in  my  presence,  by  yourself. " 

He  raised  his  finger  again.  "  One!"  he  said,  checking 
me  off  with  the  steady  attention  of  a  practical  man. 

"  In  the  second  place,  I  demand  a  plain  proof,  which 
does  not  depend  on  your  personal  asseveration,  of  the  date 
at  which  my  wife  left  Blackwater  Park  and  traveled  to 
London." 

"  So!  so!  you  can  lay  your  finger,  I  see,  on  the  weak 
place,"  he  remarked,  composedly.     "  Any  more?'' 

"  At  present,  no  more." 

*'  Good!  You  have  mentioned  your  terms;  now  listen  to 
mine.  The  responsibility  to  myself  of  admitting  what 
you  are  pleased  to  call  the  '  conspiracy,^  is  less,  perhaps, 
upon  the  whole,  than  the  responsibility  of  laying  you  dead 
on  that  hearth-rug.  Let  us  say  that  1  meet  your  proposal 
— on  my  own  conditions.     The  statement  you  demand  of 


580  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

rno  shall  be  written;  and  (he  plain  proof  shall  by  produced. 
You  call  a  letter  from  my  lamented  friend,  informing  me  of 
the  day  and  hour  of  his  wife's  arrival  in  London,  written, 
signed,  and  dated  by  himself,  a  proof,  I  suppose?  I  can  give 
you  this.  I  can  also  send  you  lo  the  man  of  whom  1  hired 
the  carriage  to  fetch  my  visitor  from  the  railway  on  the  day 
when  she  arrived — his  order-book  may  help  you  to  your 
date,  even  if  his  coachman  who  drove  me  proves  to  be  of  no 
use.  These  things  1  can  do,  and  will  do,  on  conditions.  I 
recite  them.  First  condition!  Madame  Fosoo  and  T leave 
this  house  when  and  how  we  please,  without  interference  of 
any  kind  on  your  part.  Second  condition!  You  wait  here, 
in  company  with  me,  to  see  my  agent,  who  is  coming  at 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  regulate  my  affairs.  You 
give  my  agent  a  written  order  to  the  man  who  has  got  your 
sealed  letter  to  resign  his  possession  of  it.  Y'ou  wait  here 
till  my  agent  places  that  letter  unopened  in  my  hands;  and 
you  then  allow  me  one  clear  Imli"  hour  to  leave  the  house — 
after  which  you  resume  your  own  freedom  of  action,  and 
go  where  you  please.  Third  condition!  You  give  me  the 
s.iitsfaction  of  a  gentleman  for  your  intrusion  into  my  pri- 
vate affairs,  and  for  the  language  you  have  allowed  yourself 
lo  use  to  me  at  this  conference.  The  time  and  place,  abroad, 
to  be  fixed  in  a  letter  from  my  hand  when  1  am  safe  on  the 
('oiitinent;and  that  letter  to  contain  a  strip  of  paper  meas- 
uring accurately  the  length  of  my  sword.  Those  are  my 
U-rms.     Inform  me  if  you  accept  them — Yes  or  No." 

The  extraordinary  mixture  of  prompt  decision,  far-sight- 
ed cunning,  and  mountebank  bravado  in  this  speech,  stag- 
gered me  for  a  moment — and  only  for  a  moment.  The 
one  question  to  consider  was,  whether  I  was  justified  or  not 
in  possessing  myself  of  the  means  of  establishing  Laura's 
identity,  at  the  cost  of  allowing  the  scoundrel  who  had 
robbed  her  of  it  to  escape  me  with  impunity.  I  knew  that 
the  motive  of  securing  the  just  recognition  of  ray  wife  in 
the  birthplace  hom.  which  she  had  been  driven  out  as  an 
impostor,  and  of  publicly  erasing  the  lie  that  still  profaned 
her  mother's  tombstone,  was  far  purer,  in  its  freedom  from 
all  taint  of  evil  passion,  than  the  vindictive  motive  which 
had  mingled  itself  with  my  purpose  from  the  first.  And 
yet  1  can  not  honestly  say  that  my  own  moral  convictions 
were  strong  euough  to  decide  the  struggle  in  me  by  them- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  581 

selves.  They  were  helped  by  my  remembrances  of  Sir  Per- 
cival's  death.  How  awfully,  at  thu  last  moment,  had  the 
working  of  the  retribution  tJiere  been  snatched  from  my 
feeble  hands!  What  right  had  1  to  decide,  in  my  poor 
mortal  ignorance  of  the  future,  that  this  man,  too,  must 
escape  with  impunity  because  he  escaped  me  ?  I  thought  of 
these  things — perhaps  with  the  superstition  inherent  in  my 
nature;  perhaps  with  a  sense  worthier  of  me  than  supersti' 
tion.  It  was  hard,  when  1  had  fastened  my  hold  on  him  at 
last,  to  loosen  it  again  of  my  own  accord,  but  I  forced  my 
self  to  make  the  sacritice.  \n  plainer  words,  1  determined 
to  be  guided  by  the  one  higher  motive  of  which  1  was  cer- 
tain, the  motive  of  serving  the  cause  of  Laura  and  the  cause 
of  Truth. 

"  I  accept  your  conditions,"  I  said.  "With  one  reserva- 
tion, on  my  part." 

"  What  reservation  may  that  be?"  he  asked. 

"  It  refers  to  the  sealed  letter,"  I  answered.  "  1  require 
you  to  destroy  it,  unopened,  in  my  presence,  as  soon  as  it 
is  placed  in  your  hands." 

My  object  in  making  this  stipulation  was  simply  to  pre- 
vent him  from  carrying  away  any  written  evidence  of  the 
nature  of  my  communication  with  Pesca.  The  fact  of  my 
communication  he  would  necessarily  discover  when  I  gave 
the  address  to  his  agent  in  the  morning.  But  he  could 
make  no  use  of  it,  on  his  own  unsupported  testimony — 
even  if  he  really  ventured  to  try  the  experiment — which 
need  excite  in  me  the  slightest  apprehension  on  Pesca's 
account. 

"  I  grant  your  reservation,"  he  replied,  after  considering 
the  question  gravely  for  a  minute  or  two.  "  It  is  not  worth 
dispute — the  letter  shall  be  destroyed  when  it  comes  into 
my  hands." 

He  rose,  as  he  spoke,  from  the  chair  in  which  he  had 
been  sitting  opposite  to  me  up  to  this  time.  With  one 
effort  he  appeared  to  free  his  mind  from  the  whole  pressure 
on  it  of  the  interview  between  us  thus  far.  "  Ouf !"  he 
cried,  stretching  his  arms  luxuriously;  "  the  skirmish  was 
hot  while  it  lasted.  Take  a  seat,  Mr.  Hartright.  We  meet 
as  mortal  enemies  hereafter — let  us,  like  gallant  gentle- 
men, exchange  polite  attentions  in  the  moan  time.  Permit 
me  to  take  the  liberty  of  calling  for  my  wife." 


582  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

He  unlocked  and  opened  the  door.  "  Eleanor!"  he 
called  out,  in  liis  deep  voice.  The  lady  of  the  viperish  fact 
came  in.  "Madame  Fosco — Mr.  Hartright,"  said  the 
Count,  introducing  us  with  easy  dignity.  '*  My  angel,"  he 
went  on,  addressing  his  wife,  "  will  your  labors  of  packing 
up  allow  you  time  to  make  me  some  nice  strong  coffee?  1 
have  writing  business  to  transact  with  Mr.  Hartright — and 
1  require  the  full  possession  of  my  intelligence  to  do  justice 
to  myself. " 

Madame  Fosco  bowed  her  head  twice — once  sternly  to  me; 
once  submissively  to  her  husband — and  glided  out  of  the 
room. 

The  Count  walked  to  a  writing-table  near  the  window, 
opened  his  desk,  and  took  from  it  several  quires  of  paper 
and  a  bundle  of  quill  pens.  He  scaltered  the  pens  about 
the  table,  so  that  they  might  lie  ready  in  all  directions  to 
be  taken  up  when  wanted,  and  then  cut  the  paper  into  a 
heap  of  narrow  slips,  of  the  form  used  by  professional 
writers  for  the  press.  "  1  shall  make  this  a  remarkable 
document,"  he  said,  looking  at  mo  over  his  shoulder. 
"  Habits  of  literary  composition  are  perfectly  familiar  to 
me.  One  of  the  rarest  of  all  the  intellectual  accomplish- 
ments that  a  man  can  possess,  is  the  grand  faculty  of  arrang- 
ing his  ideas.    Immense  privilege!    I  possess  it.    Do  you?'* 

He  marched  backward  and  forward  in  the  room  until  the 
coffee  appeared,  humming  to  himself,  and  marking  the 
places  at  which  obstacles  occurred  in  the  arrangement  of  his 
ideas,  by  striking  his  forehead  from  time  to  time  with  the 
palm  of  his  hand.  The  enormons  andacity  with  which  he 
seized  on  the  situation  in  which  I  had  placed  him, 
and  made  it  the  pedestal  on  which  his  vanity  mounted  for 
the  one  cherished  purpose  of  self-display,  mastered  my  as- 
tonishment by  main  force.  Sincerely  as  I  loathed  the  man, 
the  prodigious  strength  of  his  character,  even  in  its  most 
trivial  aspect,  impressed  me  in  spite  of  myself. 

The  coffee  was  brought  in  by  Mme.  Fosco.  He  kissed 
her  hand  in  grateful  acknowledgement,  and  escorted  her  to 
the  door;  returned,  poured  out  a  cup  of  coffee  tor  himself 
and  took  it  to  the  writing-table. 

*'  May  I  offer  you  some  coffee,  Mr.  Hartright?"  he  said, 
oefore  he  sat  down. 

I  declined. 

"What!  you  think  1  shall  poison  you?"  he  said,  gajly. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  583 

The  English  intellect  is  sound  so  far  bs  it  goes,"  he  contin- 
ued, seating  liimself  at  the  table;  "  but  it  has  one  grave 
defect — it  is  always  cautious  in  the  wrong  place." 

He  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink;  placed  the  first  slip  of 
paper  before  him  with  a  thump  of  his  hand  on  the  desk; 
cleared  his  throat;  and  began.  He  wrote  with  great  noise 
and  rapidity,  in  so  large  and  bold  a  hand,  and  with  such 
wide  spaces  between  the  lines,  that  he  reached  the  bottom 
of  the  slip  in  not  more  than  two  minutes  certainly  from  the 
time  when  he  started  at  the  top.  Eacli  slip,  as  he  finished 
it,  was  paged  and  tossed  over  his  shoulder,  out  of  his  way, 
on  the  floor.  When  his  first  pen  was  worn  out,  that  went 
over  his  shoulder  too;  and  he  pounced  on  a  second  from 
the  supply  scattered  about  the  table.  Slip  after  slip,  by 
dozens,  by  fifties,  by  hu?idreds,  flew  over  his  shoulders  on 
either  side  of  him,  till  he  had  snowed  himself  up  in  paper 
all  round  his  chair.  Hour  after  hour  passed — and  there  I 
sat,  watching;  there  he  sat,  writing.  He  never  stopped, 
exceptjto  sip  his  cofiee;  and,  when  that  was  exhausted,  to 
smack  his  forehead  from  time  to  time.  One  o'clock  struck, 
two,  three,  four — and  still  the  slips  flew  about  all  round 
him;  still  the  untiring  pen  scraped  its  way  ceaselessly  from 
top  to  bottom  of  the  page;  still  the  white  chaos  of  paper 
rose  higher  and  higher  all  round  his  chair.  At  four  o'clock 
T  heard  a  sudden  splutter  of  the  pen,  indicative  of  the  flour- 
ish with  which  he  signed  his  name.  "  Bravo!"  he  cried, 
springing  to  his  feet  with  the  activity  of  a  young  man,  and 
looking  me  straight  in  the  face  with  a  smile  of  superb  tri- 
umph. 

"  Done,  Mr.  Hartrightl"  he  announced,  with  a  self-reno- 
vating thump  of  his  fist  on  his  broad  chest.  "  Done,  to 
my  own  profound  satisfaction — to  your  profound  astonish- 
ment, when  you  read  what  I  have  written.  The  subject  is 
exhausted:  the  man — E'osoo — is  not.  1  proceed  to  the  ar- 
rangement of  my  slips,  to  the  revision  of  my  slips,  to 
the  reading  of  my  slips — addressed,  emphatically,  to  your 
private  ear.  Four  o'clock  has  just  struck.  Good!  Ar- 
rangement, revision,  reading  from  four  to  five.  Short 
snooze  of  restoration  for  myself,  from  five  to  six.  Final 
preparations  from  six  to  seven.  Afl'air  of  agent  and  sealed 
letter,  from  seven  to  eight.  At  eight,  en  route.  Behold 
the  programme!" 

He  sat  down  cross-legged  on  the  floor  among  his  papers; 


584  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE 

strung  them  together  with  a  bodkin  and  a  piece  of  string; 
revised  them;  wrote  all  the  titles  and  honors  by  which  he 
was  personally  distinguished  at  the  head  of  the  first  page; 
and  then  read  the  manuscript  to  me,  with  loud  theatrical 
emphasis  and  profuse  theatrical  gesticulation.  The  reader 
viVA  have  an  opportunity  ere  long  of  forming  his  own  opin- 
ion of  the  document.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  mention  here 
that  it  answered  my  purpose. 

He  next  wrote  me  the  address  of  the  person  from  whom 
he  had  hired  the  fly.  and  handed  me  Sir  Percival's  letter. 
It  was  dated  from  Hampshire  on  the  25th  of  July;  and  it 
announced  the  journey  of  "  Lady  Glyde  "  to  London,  on 
the  2Gth.  Thus,  on  the  very  day  (the  25th),  when  the  doc- 
tor's certificate  declared  that  she  had  died  in  St.  John's 
Wood,  she  was  alive,  by  Sir  Percival's  own  showing,  at 
Blackwater — and  on  the  day  after  she  was  to  take  a  journey. 
When  the  proof  of  that  journey  was  obtained  from  the  fly- 
man, the  evidence  would  be  complete. 

"  A  quarter  past  five,"  said  the  Count,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "  Time  for  my  restorative  snooze.  1  personally 
resemble  Napoleon  the  Great,  as  you  may  have  remarked, 
Mr.  Hartright— I  also  resemble  that  immortal  man  in  my 
power  of  commanding  sleep  at  will.  Excuse  me  one  mo- 
ment. 1  will  summon  Madame  Fosco,  to  keep  you  from 
feeling  dull." 

Knowing  as  well  as  he  did  that  he  was  summoning  Mm. 
Fosco  to  insure  my  not  leaving  the  house  while  he  was 
asleep,  I  made  no  reply,  and  occupied  myself  in  tying  up 
the  papers   which  he  had  placed  in  my  possession. 

The  lady  came  in,  cool,  pale,  and  venomous  as  ever. 
"  Amuse  Mr.  Hartright,  my  angel,"  said  the  Count.  He 
placed  a  chair  for  her,  kissed  her  hand  for  the  second  time, 
withdrew  to  the  sofa,  and  in  three  minutes  was  as  peace- 
fully and  happily  asleep  as  the  most  virtuous  man  in  exist- 
ence. 

Madame  Fosco  took  a  book  from  the  table,  sat  down,  and 
looked  at  me,  with  the  steady,  vindictive  malice  of  a  woman 
who  never  forgot  and  never  forgave. 

"  I  have  been  listening  to  your  conversation  with  my 
husband,"  she  said.  "  If  I  had  been  in  Iris  place,  I  would 
have  laid  you  dead  on  the  heartli-riig." 

With  those  words,  she  opened  her  book;  and  never  looked 


THE    WOMAN    IN"    WHITE.  585 

at  me,  or  spoke  to  me,  from  that  time  till  the  time  wheu 
her  husband  woke. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  rose  from  the  sofa,  accurately  to 
au  hour  from  the  time  when  he  had  gone  to  sleep. 

"  1  feel  iiilinitely  refreshed,^'  he  remarked.  "  Eleanor, 
my  good  wife,  areyou  all  ready  upstairs?  That  is  well. 
My  little  paokiug  here  can  be  completed  in  ten  minutes — 
my  traveling-dress  assumed  in  ten  minutes  more.  What 
remains,  before  the  agent  comes?"  lie  looked  about  the 
room,  and  noticed  the  cage  with  his  white  mice  in  it. 
"  Ah!"  he  cried,  piteously;  "  a  last  laceration  of  my  sym- 
pathies still  remains.  My  innocent  pets!  my  little  cherished 
children!  what  am  I  to  do  with  them?  For  the  present, 
we  are  settled  nowhere;  for  the  present  we  travel  incessant- 
ly—the less  baggage  we  carry,  the  better  for  ourselves.  My 
cockatoo,  my  canaries,  and  my  little  mice,  who  will  cherish 
them  when  their  good  Papa  is  gone?" 

He  walked  about  the  room,  deep  in  thought.  He  had 
not  been  at  all  troubled  about  ^vriting  his  confession,  but 
he  was  visibly  perplexed  and  distressed  about  the  far  more 
important  question  of  the  disposal  of  his  pets.  After  long 
consideration,  he  suddenly  sat  down  again  at  his  writing- 
table. 

"  An  idea!"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  will  offer  my  canaries 
and  my  cockatoo  to  this  vast  Metropolis-  my  agent  shall 
present  them,  in  my  name,  to  the  Zoological  Gardens  of 
London.  The  Document  that  describes  them  shall  be  drawn 
out  on  the  spot." 

He  began  to  write,  repeating  the  words  as  they  flowed 
from  his  pen. 

"  Number  One.  Cockatoo  of  transcendent  plumage:  at- 
traction of  himself  to  all  visitors  of  taste.  Number  Two. 
Canaries  of  unrivaled  vivacity  and  intelligence;  worthy  of 
the  garden  of  Eden,  worthy  also  of  the  garden  in  Kegent's 
Park.     Homage  to  British  Zoology.     Offered  by  Fosco." 

The  pen  spluttered  again,  and  the  flourish  was  attached  to 
his  signature. 

"  Count!  you  have  not  included  the  mice,"  said  Mme. 
Fosco. 

He  left  the  table,  took  her  hand,  and  placed  it  on  his 
heart. 


586  THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE. 

"  All  humau  resolution,  Eleanor/'  he  said,  solemnly, 
"  has  its  limits.  My  limits  are  inscribed  on  that  Document. 
1  can  not  part  with  my  white  mice.  Bear  with  me,  my 
angel,  and  remove  them  to  their  traveling-cage   upstairs." 

"Admirable  tenderness!"  sai<i  Mme.  Fosco,  admiring 
her  husband  with  a  last  viperish  look  in  my  direction.  She 
took  up  the  cage  carefully,  and  left  the  room. 

The  Count  looked  at  his  watch.  In  spite  of  his  resolute 
assumption  of  coni[)Osure,  he  was  getting  anxious  for  the 
agent's  arrival.  The  candles  had  long  since  been  extin- 
guished, and  the  sunlight  of  the  new  morning  poured  into 
the  room.  It  was  not  till  five  minutes  past  seven  that  the 
gate-bell  rang,  and  the  agent  made  his  appearance.  He 
was  a  foreigner,  with  a  dark  beard. 

"  Mr.  Hartrigbt — Monsieur  Eubelle,"  said  the  Count, 
introducing  us.  He  took  the  agent  (a  foreign  spy,  in  every 
line  of  his  face,  if  ever  there  was  one  yet),  into  a  corner  of 
the  room,  whispered  some  directions  to  him,  and  then  left 
us  together.  "  Monsieur  Rubelle,"  as  soon  as  we  were 
alone,  suggested,  with  great  politeness,  that  1  should  favor 
him  with  his  instructions.  I  wrote  two  lines  to  Pesca, 
authorizing  him  to  deliver  my  sealed  letter  "  to  the  Bearer,'* 
directed  the  note,  and  handed  it  to  Monsieur  Eubelle. 

The  agent  waited  with  me  till  his  employer  returned, 
equipped  in  traveling  costume.  The  Count  examined  the 
address  of  my  letter  before  he  dismissed  the  agent.  "  I 
thought  so!"  he  said,  turning  on  me  with  a  dark  look,  and 
altering  again  in  his  manner  from  that  moment. 

He  completed  his  packing,  and  then  sat  consulting  a  trav- 
eling-map, making  entries  in  hie  pocket-book,  and  looking 
every  now  and  then  impatiently  at  his  watch.  Not  another 
word,  addressed  to  myself,  passed  his  lips.  The  near  ap- 
proach of  the  hour  for  his  departure,  and  the  proof  he  had 
seen  of  the  communication  established  between  Pesca  and 
myself,  had  plainly  recalled  his  whole  attention  to  the  meas- 
ures that  were  necessary  for  securing  his  escape. 

A  little  before  eight  o'clock  Monsieur  Rubelle  came  back, 
with  an  unopened  letter  in  his  hand.  The  Count  looked 
carefully  at  the  superscription  and  the  seal,  lighted  a  candle, 
and  burned  the  letter.  "  I  perform  my  promise,"  he  said; 
*'  but  thisT matter,  Mr.  Hartrigbt,  shall  not  end  here." 

The  agent  had  kept  at  the  door  the  cab  in  which  he  haf"- 
returned.    He  and  the  maid-servant  now  busied  tbemselvea 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  587 

in  removing  the  luggage.  Mme.  Fosco  came  down-staird, 
thickly  veiled,  with  the  traveling-cage  of  the  white  mice  iu 
her  hand.  She  neither  spoke  to  me  nor  looked  toward  me. 
Her  husband  escorted  her  to  the  cab.  "  Follow  me  as  far 
as  the  passage,"  he  whispered  in  my  ear;  "  1  may  want  to 
speak  to  you  at  the  last  moment." 

I  went  out  to  the  door;  the  agent  standing  below  me  in 
the  front  garden.  The  Count  came  back  alone,  and  drew 
me  a  few  steps  inside  the  passage. 

"  Remember  the  Third  condition!"  he  whispered.  "  You 
shall  hear  from  me,  Mr.  Hartright — I  may  claim  from  you 
the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman  sooner  than  you  think  for." 
He  caught  my  hand  before  I  was  aware  of  him,  and  wrung 
it  hard — then  turned  to  the  door,  stopped,  and  came  back 
to  me  again. 

"  One  word  more,"  he  said,  confidentially.  "  When  1 
last  saw  Miss  Halcombe,  she  looked  thin  and  ill.  1  am  anx- 
ious about  that  admirable  woman.  Take  care  of  her,  sir! 
With  my  hand  on  my  heart,  1  solemnly  implore  you,  take 
care  of  Miss  Halcombe  I" 

Those  were  the  last  words  he  said  to  me  before  he  squeezed 
his  huge  body  into  the  cab  and  drove  off. 

The  agent  and  I  waited  at  the  door  a  few  moments,  looking 
after  him.  Wjile  we  were  standing  together,  a  second  cab 
appeared  from  a  turning  a  little  way  down  the  road.  It  fol- 
lowed the  direction  previously  taken  by  the  Count's  cab; 
and,  as  it  passed  the  house  and  the  open  garden-gate,  a 
person  inside  looked  at  us  out  of  the  window.  The  stranger 
at  the  Opera  again! — the  foreigner  with  the  scar  on  his  left 
cheek. 

*'  You  vvait  here  with  me,  sir,  for  half  an  hour  more?" 

said  Monsieur  Rubelle. 

"Ida" 

We  returned  to  the  sitting-room.  1  was  in  no  humor  to 
speak  to  the  agent,  or  to  allow  him  to  speak  to  me.  I  took 
out  the  papers  which  the  Count  had  placed  in  my  hands, 
and  read  the  terrible  story  of  the  conspiracy  told  by  the 
man  who  had  planned  and  perpetrated  it! 


588  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 


The  Story    contmited  hy  Istdor  Ottavio  Baldassare 

Fosco;  Count  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire;  Knight 
Grand  Cross  of  the  Order  of  tJte  Brazen  Croivn  :  Per- 
petual  Arch-Master  of  the  liosicrucian  Masons  of  3feso- 
potamia  J  Attached  (in  Honorary  Capaciiies)  to 
Societies  Musical,  Societies  Medical,  Societies  P]iihn;o- 
pliical,  and  Societies  General  Benevolent,  throuyhoui 
Europe ;  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

The  Count's  Narrative. 

In  the  summer  of  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty  I  arrived 
in  England,  charged  with  a  delicate  political  mission  from 
abroad.  Confidential  persons  were  semi-offioially  connected 
with  me,  whose  exertioiis  I  was  authorized  to  direct — Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  Rubelle  being  among  the  number.  Some 
weeks  of  spare  time  were  at  my  disposal,  before  I  entered 
on  my  functions  by  establishing  myself  in  the  suburbs  of 
London.  Curiosity  may  stop  here,  to  ask  for  some  explana- 
tion of  those  functions  on  my  part.  I  entirely  sympathize 
with  the  request.  I  also  regret  that  diplomatic  reserve  for- 
bids me  to  comply  with  it. 

1  arranged  to  pass  the  preliminary  period  of  repose,  to 
which  1  have  just  referred,  in  the  superb  mansion  of  my 
late  lamented  friend  Sir  Percival  Glyde.  He  arrived  from 
the  Continent  with  his  wife.  1  arrived  from  the  Continent 
with  mine.  England  is  the  land  of  domestic  happiness — 
how  appropriately  we  entered  it  under  these  domestic  cir- 
cumstances! 

The  bond  of  friendship  which  united  Percival  and  myself 
was  strengthened  on  this  occasion,  by  a  touching  similarity 
in  the  pecuniary  position,  on  his  side  and  on  mine.  We 
both  wanted  money.  Immense  necessity!  Universal  wanti 
Is  there  a  civilized  human  being  who  does  not  feel  for  us? 
How  insensible  must  that  man  be!     Or  how  rich! 

1  enter  into  no  sordid  particulars  in  discussing  this  part 
of  the  subject.  My  mind  recoils  from  tliem.  With  a 
Roman  austerity,  I  show  my  empty  purse  and  Percival's 
to  the  shrinking  public  gaze.  Let  us  allow  the  deplorable 
fact  to  assert  itself,  once  for  all,  in  that  manner,  and  pass 


IBE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  689 

We  were  received  at  the  mansion  by  the  magnificent 
creature  who  is  inscribed  on  my  heart  as  "  Marian  "■ — who 
is  known  in  the  colder  atmosphere  of  society  as  "  Miss 
Halcombe/' 

Just  Heaven!  with  what  inconceivable  rapidity  I 
learned  to  adore  that  woman.  At  sixty,  I  worshipped  her 
with  the  volcanic  ardor  of  eighteen.  All  the  gold  of  my 
rich  nature  was  poured  hopelessly  at  her  feet.  My  wife—' 
poor  angel! — my  wife  who  adores  me,  got  nothing  but  the 
shillings  and  the  pennies.  Such  is  the  World;  such  Man; 
such  Love.  W'hat  are  we  (I  ask)  but  puppets  in  a  show- 
box?  Oh,  omnipotent  Destiny,  pull  our  strings  gently! 
Dance  us  mercifully  off  our  miserable  little  stage! 

The  preceding  lines,  rightly  understood,  express  an  entire 
system  of  philosophy.     It  is  Mine. 

1  resume. 

The  domestic  position  at  the  commencemenr  of  our  resi- 
dence at  Blackwater  Park  has  been  di  awn  with  amazing  ac- 
curacy, with  profound  mental  insight,  by  the  hand  of  Marian 
herself.  (Pass  me  the  intoxicating  familiarity  of  mention- 
ing this  sublime  creature  by  her  Chiistian  name. )  Accurate 
knowledge  of  the  contents  of  her  journal — to  which  I  ob- 
tained access  by  clandestine  means,  unspeakably  precious 
to  me  in  the  remembrance — warns  my  eager  pen  from 
topics  which  this  essentially  exhaustive  woman  has  already 
made  her  own. 

The  interests — interests,  breathless  and  immense! — with 
which  I  am  here  concerned,  begin  with  the  deplorable  cal- 
amity of  Marian's  illness. 

The  situation  at  this  period  was,  emphatically,  a  serious 
one.  Large  sums  of  money,  due  at  a  certain  time,  were 
wanted  by  Percival  (I  say  nothing  of  the  modicum  equally 
necessary  to  myself)  and  (he  one  source  to  look  to  for  sup- 
plying them  was  the  fortune  of  his  wife,  of  which  not  one 
farthing  was  at  his  disposal  until  her  death.  Bad,  so  far; 
and  worse  still  further  on.  My  lamented  friend  had  pri- 
vate troubles  of  his  own,  into  which  the  delicacy  of  my  dis- 
interested attachment  to  him  forbade  me  from  inquiring 
too  curiously.  I  knew  nothing  but  that  a  woman,  named 
Anne  Catherick,  was  hidden  in  the  neighborhood;  that 
she  was  in  communication  with  Lady  Glyde;  and  that  the 
disclosure  of  a  secret,  which  would   be  the  certain  ruin  of 


590  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Percival,  might  be  the  result.  He  had  told  me  himself 
that  he  was  a  lost  man,  unless  his  wife  was  silenced,  and 
unless  Anne  Catherick  was  found.  If  he  was  a  lost  man, 
what  would  become  of  our  pecuniary  interests?  Courageous 
as  I  am  by  nature,  1  absolutely  trembled  at  the  idea! 

The  whole  force  of  my  intelligence  was  now  directed  to 
the  finding  of  Anne  Catherick.  Our  money  affairs,  import- 
ant as  they  were,  admitted  of  delay — but  the  necessity  of 
discovering  the  woman  admitted  of  none.  I  only  knew  her, 
by  description,  as  presenting  an  extraordinary  personal  re- 
semblance to  Lady  Clyde.  The  statement  of  this  curious 
fact — intended  merely  to  assist  me  in  identifying  the  per- 
son of  whom  we  were  in  search — when  coupled  with  the 
additional  information  that  Anne  Catherick  had  escaped 
from  a  mad-house,  started  the  first  immense  conception  in 
my  mind,  which  subsequently  led  to  such  amazing  results. 
That  conception  involved  nothing  less  than  the  complete 
transformation  of  two  separate  identities.  Lady  Clyde  and 
Anne  Catherick  were  to  change  names,  places,  and  des- 
tinies, the  one  with  the  other — the  prodigious  consequences 
contemplated  by  the  change  being  the  gain  of  thirty  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  the  eternal  preservation  of  Sir  Percival's 
secret. 

My  instincts  (which  seldom  err)  suggested  to  me,  on  re- 
viewing the  circumstances,  that  our  invisible  Anne  would, 
sooner  or  later,  return  to  the  boat-house  at  Blackwater 
Lake.  There  I  posted  myself;  previously  mentioning  to 
Mrs.  Michelson,  the  housekeeper,  that  1  might  be  found 
when  wanted,  immersed  in  study,  in  that  solitary  place.  It 
IS  my  rule  never  to  make  unnecessary  mysteries,  and  never 
to  set  people  suspecting  me  for  want  of  a  little  seasonable 
candor  on  my  part.  Mrs.  Michelson  believed  in  me  from 
first  to  last.  This  lady-like  person  (widow  of  a  Protestant 
priest)  overflowed  with  faith.  Touched  by  such  superfluity 
of  simple  confidence,  in  a  woman  of  her  mature  years,  I 
opened  the  ample  reservoirs  of  my  nature,  and  absorbed  it 
all. 

I  was  rewarded  for  posting  myself  sentinel  at  the  lake 
by  the  appearance — not  of  Anne  Catherick  herself,  but  of 
the  person  in  charge  of  her.  This  individual  also  over- 
flowed with  simple  faith,  which  1  absorbed  in  myself,  as  in 
the  case  already  mentioned.  I  leave  her  to  describe  the 
circumstances  (if  she  has  not  done  so  already)  under  which 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  591 

she  introduces  me  to  the  object  of  her  maternal  care. 
When  I  first  saw  Anne  Catherick,  she  was  asleep.  1  was 
electrified  by  the  likeness  between  this  unhappy  woman  and 
Lady  Glyde.  The  details  of  the  grand  scheme,  which  had 
suggested  themselves  in  outline  onlj',  up  to  that  period,  oc- 
curred to  me,  in  aii  their  masterly  combination,  at  the  sight 
of  the  sleeping  face.  At  the  same  time,  my  heart,  always 
accessible  to  tender  influences,  dissolved  in  tears  at  the 
spectacle  of  suffering  before  me.  I  instantly  set  myself  to 
impart  relief.  In  other  words,  I  provided  the  necessary 
stimulant  for  strengthening  Anne  f'^.therick  to  perform  the 
journey  to  London. 

At  this  point,  I  enter  a  necessary  protest,  and  correct  a 
lamentable  error. 

The  best  years  of  my  life  have  been  passed  in  the  ardent 
study  of  medical  and  chemical  science.  Chemistry,  espe- 
cially, has  always  had  irresistible  attractions  for  me,  from 
the  enormous,  the  illimitable  power  which  the  knowledge 
of  it  confers.  Chemists,  1  assert  it  emphatically,  might 
sway,  if  they  pleased,  the  destinies  of  humanity.  Let  me 
explain  this  before  I  go  further. 

Mind,  they  say,  rules  the  world.  But  what  rules  the 
mind?  The  body.  The  body  (follow  me  closely  here)  lies 
at  the  mercy  of  the  most  omnipotent  of  all  potentates — the 
Chemist.  Give  me — Fosco — chemistry;  and  when  Shake- 
speare has  conceived  Hamlet,  and  sits  down  to  execute  the 
conception — with  a  few  grains  of  powder  dropped  into  his 
daily  food,  1  will  reduce  his  mind,  by  the  action  of  his 
body,  till  his  pen  pours  out  the  most  abject  drivel  that  has 
ever  degraded  paper.  Under  similar  circumstances,  re- 
vire  me  the  illustrious  Newton.  I  guarantee  that,  when 
he  sees  the  apple  fall,  he  shall  eat  it,  instead  of  discovering 
the  principle  of  gravitation.  Nero's  dinner  shall  transform 
Nero  into  the  mildest  of  men  before  he  has  done  digesting 
it;  and  the  morning  draught  of  Alexander  the  Great  shall 
make  Alexander  run  for  his  life,  at  the  first  sight  of  the 
enemy,  the  same  afternoon.  On  my  sacred  word  of  honor, 
it  is  lucky  for  society  that  modern  chemists  are,  by  incom- 
prehensible good  fortune,  the  most  harmless  of  mankind. 
The  mass  are  worthy  fathers  of  families  who  keep  shops. 
The  few  are  philosophers  besotted  with  admiration  for  the 
sound  of  their  own  lecturing  voices;  visionaries  who  waste 


592  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

their  lives  on  fantastic  impossibilities;  or  quacks  whose  am- 
bition soars  no  higher  than  our  corns.  Thus  society  escapes; 
and  the  illimitable  power  of  Chemistry  remains  the  slave  of 
the  most  superficial  and  the  most  insignificant  ends. 

Why  this  outburst?     Why  this  withering  eloquence? 

Because  my  conduct  has  been  misrepresented;  because 
my  motives  have  been  misunderstood.  It  has  been  assumed 
that  I  used  my  vast  chemical  resources  against  Anne  Cath- 
erick;  and  that  1  would  have  used  them,  if  I  could,  against 
the  maginficent  Marian  herself.  Odious  insinuations  both! 
All  my  interests  were  concerned  (as  will  be  seen  presentl_>) 
in  the  preservation  of  Anne  Catheriok's  life.  All  my  anx- 
ieties were  concentrated  on  Marian's  rescue  from  the  hands 
of  the  licensed  Imbecile  who  attended  her;  and  who  found 
my  advice  confirmed,  from  first  to  last,  by  the  pliysician 
from  London.  On  two  occasions  only — both  equally  harm- 
less to  the  individual  on  whom  I  practiced — did  I  summon 
to  myself  the  assistance  of  chemical  knowledge.  On  the  first 
of  the  two,  after  following  Marian  to  the  Inn  at  Blackwatei 
(studying,  behind  the  convenient  wagon  which  hid  nn 
from  her,  the  poetry  of  motion,  as  embodied  in  her  walk), 
I  availed  myself  of  the  services  of  my  invaluable  wife  tu 
copy  one  and  to  intercept  the  other  of  two  letters  which 
my  adored  enemy  had  intrusted  to  a  discarded  maid.  In 
this  case,  the  letters  being  in  the  bosom  of  the  girl's  dress, 
Mme.  Fosco  could  only  open  them,  read  them,  perform 
her  instructions,  seal  them,  and  put  them  back  again,  by 
scientific  assistance — which  assistance  I  rendered  in  a  half- 
ounce  bottle.  The  second  occasion  when  the  same  means 
were  employed,  was  the  occasion  (to  which  I  shall  soon 
refer)  of  Lady  Glyde's  arrival  in  London.  Never,  at  any 
other  time,  was  I  indebted  to  my  Art,  as  distinguished  from 
myself.  To  all  other  emergencies  and  complications  my 
natural  capacity  for  grappling,  single-handed,  with  cir- 
cnmstaiices,  was  invariably  equal.  I  affirm  the  all-pervad- 
ing intelligence  of  that  capacity.  At  the  expense  of  the 
Chemist,  I  vindicate  the  Man. 

liespect  this  outburst  of  generous  indignation.  It  has 
inexpressibly  relieved  me.     Bti  route  !     Let  us  proceed. 

Having  suggested  to  Mrs.  Clement  (or  Clements,  1  am 
not  sure  which)  that  the  best  method  of  keeping  Anne  out 
of  Percival's  reach  was  to  remove  her  to  Loudon;  havmg 


THF,   ^voMA^r   ttc   white.  593 

found  that  my  j)ropo.sal  was  cagerl}'  received;  and  having 
appointed  a  day  to  meet  the  travelers  at  the  station,  and  to 
see  them  leave  it — I  was  at  liberty  to  return  to  the  house, 
and  to  confront  the  ditticulties  which  still  remained  to  be 
met. 

My  first  proceeding  was  to  avail  myself  of  the  sublime 
devotion  of  my  wife.  1  had  arranged  with  Mrs.  Clements 
that  she  should  communicate  her  London  address,  in 
Anne's  interests,  to  Lady  Glyde.  But  this  was  not  enough. 
Designing  persons,  in  my  absence,  might  shake  the  simple 
confidence  of  Mrs.  Clements,  and  she  might  not  write  after 
all.  Who  could  I  find  capable  of  traveling  to  London  by 
the  train  she  traveled  by,  and  of  privately  seeing  her  home? 
]  asked  myself  this  question.  The  conjugal  part  of  me 
immediately  answered — Mme.  Fosco. 

After  deciding  on  my  wife's  mission  to  London,  I  ar- 
ranged that  the  journey  should  serve  a  double  purpose.  A 
nurse  for  the  suffering  Marian,  equally  devoted  to  the  pa- 
tient and  to  myself,  was  a  necessity  of  my  position.  One 
of  the  most  eminently  confidential  and  capable  women  in 
existence  was,  by  good  fortune,  at  my  disi3osal.  1  refer  to 
that  respectable  matron,  Mme.  Eubelle — to  whom  I  ad- 
dressed a  letter,  at  her  residence  in  London,  by  the  hands 
of  my  wife. 

On  the  appointed  day  Mrs.  Clements  and  Anne  Catherick 
met  me  at  the  station.  I  politely  saw  them  off.  I  politely 
saw  Mme.  Fosco  off  by  the  same  train.  The  last  thing  at 
night  my  wife  returned  to  Blackwater,  having  followed 
her  instructions  with  the  most  unimpeachable  accuracy. 
She  was  accompanied  by  Mme.  Eubelle,  and  she  brought 
me  the  London  address  of  Mrs.  Clements.  After-events 
proved  this  last  precaution  to  have  been  unnecessary. 
Mrs.  Clements  punctually  informed  Lady  Glyde  of  her 
place  of  abode.  With  a  wary  eye  on  future  emergencies, 
1  kept  the  letter. 

The  same  day  I  had  a  brief  interview  with  ihe  doctor,  at 
which  1  protested,  in  the  sacred  interests  of  humanity, 
against  his  treatment  of  Marian's  case.  He  was  insolent, 
as  all  ignorant  people  are.  I' showed  no  resentment;  I  de- 
ferred quarreling  v/ith  him  till  it  was  necessary  to  quarrel 
to  some  purpose. 

My  next  proceeding  was  to  leave  Blackwater  myself.     I 


594  THE    WOMAN    IJT    WHITE. 

had  my  London  residence  to  take,  in  anticipation  of  com- 
ing events.  I  had  also  a  little  business,  of  the  domestic 
sort,  to  transact  with  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie.  I  found  the 
house  1  wanted  in  St.  John's  Wood.  I  found  Mr.  Fairlie 
at  Limmericlge,  Cumberland. 

My  own  private  familiarity  with  the  nature  of  Marian's 
correspondence  hud  previously  informed  me  that  she  had 
written  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  proposing,  as  a  relief  to  Lady  Glyde's 
matrimonial  embarrassments,  to  take  her  on  a  visit  to  her 
uncle  in  Cumberland.  This  letter  I  had  wisely  allowed  to 
reach  its  destination,  feeling,  at  the  time,  that  it  could  do 
no  harm,  and  might  do  good.  I  now  presented  myself  be- 
fore Mr.  Fairlie,  to  support  Marian's  own  proposal,  with 
certain  modifications  which,  happily  for  the  success  of  my 
plans,  were  rendered  really  inevitable  by  her  illness.  It 
was  necessary  that  Lady  Clyde  should  leave  Blackwater 
alone,  by  her  uncle's  invitation,  and  that  she  should  rest  a 
night  on  the  journey  at  her  aunt's  house  (the  house  1  had 
in  St.  John's  Wood),  by  her  uncle's  express  advice.  To 
achieve  these  results,  and  to  secure  a  note  of  invitation 
which  could  be  shown  to  Lady  Clyde,  were  the  objects  of 
my  visit  to  Mr.  Fairlie.  When  1  have  mentioned  that  this 
gentleman  was  equally  feeble  in  mind  and  body,  and  that 
I  let  loose  the  whole  force  of  my  character  on  him,  1  have 
said  enough.     I  came,  saw,  and  conquered  Fairlie. 

On  my  return  to  Blackwater  Park  (with  the  letter  of  in- 
vitation) 1  found  that  the  doctor's  imbecile  treatment  of 
Marian's  case  had  led  to  the  most  alarming  results.  The 
fever  had  turned  to  typhus.  Lady  Clyde,  on  the  day  of 
my  return,  tried  to  force  herself  into  the  room  to  nurse 
her  sister.  She  and  I  had  no  affinities  of  sympathy;  she 
had  committed  the  unpardonable  outrage  on  my  sensibilities 
of  calling  me  a  Spy;  she  was  a  stumbling-block  in  my  way 
and  in  Percival's — but,  for  all  that,  my  magnanimity  for- 
bade me  to  put  her  in  danger  of  infection  with  my  own 
hand.  At  the  same  time  I  offered  no  hinderance  to  her 
putting  herself  in  danger.  If  she  had  succeeded  in  doing 
so,  the  intricate  knot  which  1  was  slowly  and  patiently 
operating  on  might  perhaps  have  been  cut  by  circumstances. 
As  it  was,  the  doctor  interfered,  and  she  was  kept  out  of 
the  room. 

I  liatl  myself  previously  recommended  sending  for  advice 
to  London.     This  course  had  been  now  taken.     The  pl\y- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  595 

sician,  on  his  arrival,  confirmed  my  view  of  the  ease.  The 
crisis  v/as  serious.  But  we  had  hope  of  our  charming  pa- 
tient on  the  fifth  day  from  the  appearance  of  the  typhus. 
I  was  only  once  absent  from  Blackwaterat  this  time — when 
i  went  to  London  by  the  morning  train,  to  make  the  final 
arrangements  at  my  house  in  St.  John's  Wood;  to  assure 
myself,  by  private  inquiry,  that  Mrs.  Clements  had  not 
moved:  and  to  settle  one  or  two  little  preliminary  matters 
with  the  husband  of  Mme.  Kubelle.  1  returned  at  night. 
Five  days  afterward,  the  physician  pronounced  our  interest- 
ing Marian  to  be  out  of  all  danger,  and  to  be  in  need  of 
nothing  but  careful  nursing.  This  was  the  time  1  had 
waited  for.  JSlow  that  medical  attendance  was  no  longer 
indispensable,  I  played  the  first  move  in  the  game  by  as- 
serting myself  against  the  doctor.  He  was  one  among 
many  witnesses  in  my  way  whom  it  was  necessary  to  re- 
move. A  lively  altercation  between  us  (in  which  Percival, 
previously  instructed  by  me,  refused  to  interfere)  served 
the  purpose  in  view.  I  descended  on  the  miserable  man  in 
an  irresistible  avalanche  of  indignation,  and  swept  him 
from  the  house. 

The  servants  were  the  next  incumbrances  to  get  rid  of. 
Again  I  instructed  Percival  (whose  moral  courage  required 
perpetual  stimulants),  and  Mrs.  Michelson  was  amazed  one 
day  by  hearing  from  her  master  that  the  establishment  was 
to  be  broken  up.  We  cleared  the  house  of  all  the  servants 
but  one,  who  was  kept  for  domestic  purposes,  and  whose 
lumpish  stupidity  we  could  trust  to  make  no  embarrassing 
discoveries.  When  they  were  gone,  nothing  remained  but 
to  relieve  ourselves  of  Mrs.  Michelson — a  result  which  was 
easily  achieved  by  sending  this  amiable  lady  to  find  lodg- 
ings for  her  mistress  at  the  sea-side. 

The  circumstances  were  now — exactly  what  they  were 
required  to  be.  Lady  Glyde  was  confined  to  her  room  by 
nervous  illness;  and  the  lumpish  house-maid  (I  forget  her 
name)  was  shut  up  there  at  night,  in  attendance  on  her 
mistress.  Marian,  though  fast  recovering,  still  kept  her 
bed,  with  Mrs.  Eubelle  for  nurse.  Ko  other  living  crea- 
tures but  my  wife,  myself,  and  Percival  were  in  the  house. 
With  all  the  chances  thus  in  our  favor,  I  confronted  the 
next  emergency,  and  played  the  second  move  in  the  game. 

The  object  of  the  second  move  was  to  induce  Lady  Glyde 
to  leave  Blackwater,  unaccompanied  by  her  sister.     Unless 


596  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

we  could  persuade  her  that  Marian  had  gone  on  to  Cum- 
berland tirst,  there  was  no  chance  of  removing  her,  of  her 
own  free-will,  from  the  house.  To  produce  this  necessary 
operation  in  her  mind,  we  concealed  our  interesting  invalid 
in  one  of  the  uninhabited  bedrooms  at  Blackwater.  At 
the  dead  of  night,  Mnie.  Fosco,  Mme.  Eubelle,  and  myself 
(Percival  not  being  cool  enough  to  be  trusted),  accom- 
plished the  concealment.  The  scene  was  picturesque,  mys- 
terious, dramatic,  in  the  highest  degree.  By  my  directions, 
the  bed  had  been  made  in  the  morning  on  a  strong  movable 
frame-work  of  wood.  We  had  only  to  lift  the  frame-work 
gently  at  the  head  and  foot,  and  to  transport  our  patient 
where  we  pleased,  without  disturbing  herself  or  her  bed. 
No  chemical  assistance  was  needed,  or  used,  in  this  case. 
Our  interesting  Marian  lay  in  the  deep  repose  of  convales- 
cence. We  placid  the  candles  and  opened  the  doors,  be- 
forehand. I,  in  right  of  my  great  personal  strength,  took 
the  head  of  the  frame-work — my  wife  and  Mme.  Eubelle 
took  the  foot.  I  bore  my  share  of  that  inestimably  pre- 
cious burden  with  a  mindy  tenderness,  with  a  fatherly  care. 
"Where  is  the  modern  Rembrandt  who  could  depict  our  mid- 
night procession?  Alas  for  the  Arts!  alas  for  this  most 
pictorial  of  subjects!  the  modern  Eembrandt  is  nowhere  to 
be  found. 

The  next  morning  my  wife  and  1  started  for  London^ 
leaving  Marian  seclufled,  in  the  uninhabited  middle  of  the 
house,  under  care  of  Mme.  Eubelle;  who  kindly  consented 
to  imprison  herself  with  her  patient  for  two  or  three  days. 
Before  taking  our  departure,  1  gave  Percival  Mr.  Fairlie's 
letter  of  invitation  to  his  niece  (instructing  her  to  sleep  on 
the  journey  to  Cumberland  at  her  aunt's  house)^  with  di- 
rections to  show  it  to  Latly  Clyde  on  hearing  from  me.  I 
also  obtained  from  him  the  address  of  the  Asylum  in  which 
Antic  Catherick  had  been  confined,  and  a  letter  to  the  pro- 
prietor, anviouncing  to  that  gentleman  the  return  of  his 
runaway  patient  to  medical  care. 

I  had  arranged,  at  my  last  visit  to  the  metropolis,  to 
have  our  modest  domestic  establishment  ready  to  receive  ns 
when  wo  arrived  in  London  by  the  early  train.  In  conse- 
<|uence  of  this  wise  precaution,  we  were  enabled  that  same 
dity  to  play  the  Hiird  move  in  the  game — the  getting  pos- 
session of  Anne  Catherick. 

Dates  are  of  importance  here.     I  combine  in  myself  the 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    M^HITE.  597 

opposite  oharacten'sties  of  a  Man  of  Sentiment  and  a  Man 
of  Business.     I  luive  all  the  dates  at  my  fingers'  ends. 

On  Wednesday,  the  2-l-t,h  of  Jidy,  1S'>0,  I  sent  my  wife, 
in  a  cab,  to  clear  Mrs,  Clements  out  of  the  way,  in  tlie  first 
place.  A  supposed  message  from  Lady  Glyde  in  London 
was  sufficient  to  obtain  this  result.  Mrs,  Clements  was 
taken  away  in  the  cab,  aiid  was  left  in  the  cab,  while  my 
wife  (on  pretense  of  purchasing  something  at  a  shop)  gave 
her  the  slip,  and  returned  to  receive  her  expected  visitor  at 
our  house  in  St.  Jolin's  Wood.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to 
add  that  the  visitor  had  been  described  to  the  servants  as 
"Lady  Glyde." 

In  the  meanwhile  1  had  followed  in  another  cab,  with  a 
note  for  Anne  Catherick,  merely  mentioning  that  Lady 
Glyde  intended  to  keep  Mrs.  Clements  to  spend  the  day 
with  her,  and  that  she  was  to  join  them,  under  care  of  the 
good  gentleman  waiting  outside,  who  had  already  saved  her 
from  discovery  in  Hampshire  by  Sir  Percival.  The  "  good 
gentleman  "  sent  in  this  note  by  a  street  boy,  and  paused 
for  results  a  door  or  two  further  on.  At  the  moment  when 
Anne  appeared  at  the  house  door  and  closed  it,  this  excel- 
lent man  had  the  cab  door  open  ready  for  her — absorbed 
her  into  the  vehicle — and  drove  off. 

(Pass  me,  here,  one  exclamation  in  parenthesis.  How 
interesting  this  is!) 

On  the  way  to  Forest  Road  my  companion  showed  no 
fear.  I  can  be  paternal — no  man  more  so — when  I  please; 
atid  1  was  intensely  paternal  on  this  occasion.  What  titles 
1  had  to  her  confidence!  I  had  compounded  the  medicine 
which  had  done  her  good;  1  had  warned  her  of  her  danger 
from  Sir  Percival.  Perhaps  I  trusted  too  implicitly  to 
these  titles;  perhaps  I  underrated  the  keenness  of  the  lower 
instincts  in  persons  of  weak  intellect — it  is  certain  that  I 
neglected  to  prepare  her  sutSciently  for  a  disappointment 
on  entering  my  house.  "When  1  took  her  into  the  draw- 
ing-room— when  she  saw  no  one  present  but  Mme.  Fosco, 
who  was  a  stranger  to  her — she  exhibited  the  most  violent 
agitation:  if  she  had  scented  danger  in  the  air,  as  a  dog 
scents  the  presence  of  some  creature  unseen,  her  alarm 
could  not  have  displayed  itself  more  suddenly  and  more 
causelessly.  I  interposed  in  vain.  Thefear  from  which  she 
was  suffering  I  might  liave  soothed — but  the  serious  heart 
disease,  under  which  she  labored,  was  beyond  the  reach  of 


598  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITIS. 

all  moral  palliatives.  To  my  unspef;kable  horrcr,  she  was 
seized  with  convulsions — a  shock  to  the  system,  in  her  con- 
dition, which  might  have  laid  her  dead  at  any  moment  at 
our  feet. 

The  nearest  doctor  was  seat  for,  and  was  told  that  "  Lady 
Crlyde  "  required  his  immediate  services.  To  my  infinite 
relief,  he  was  a  capable  niiiu.  I  represented  my  visitor  to 
him  as  a  person  of  weak  intellect,  and  subject  to  delusions; 
and  I  arranged  that  no  nurse  but  my  wife  should  watch  in 
the  sick-room.  The  unhappy  woman  was  too  ill,  however, 
to  cause  any  anxiety  about  what  she  might  say.  The  one 
dread  which  now  oppressed  me  was  the  dread  that  the  false 
Lady  Glyde  might  die  before  the  true  Lady  Glyde  arrived 
in  London. 

I  had  written  a  note  in  the  morning  to  Mme.  Rubella, 
telling  her  to  join  me  at  her  husband's  house  on  the  even- 
ing of  Friday,  the  26th;  with  another  note  to  Percival, 
warning  him  to  show  his  wife  her  uncle's  letter  of  invita- 
tion, to  assert  that  Marian  had  gone  on  before  her,  and  to 
dispatch  her  to  town  by  the  midday  train  on  the  26th  also. 
On  reflection,  1  had  felt  the  necessity,  in  Anne  Catherick's 
state  of  health,  of  precipitating  events,  and  of  having  Lady 
Glyde  at  my  disposal  earlier  than  I  had  originally  contem- 
plated. What  fresh  directions,  in  the  terrible  uncertainty 
of  my  position,  could  I  now  issue?  I  could  do  nothing  but 
trust  to  chance  and  the  doctor.  My  emotions  expressed 
themselves  in  pathetic  apostrophes — which  1  was  just  self- 
possessed  enough  to  couple,  in  the  hearing  of  other  people, 
with  the  name  of  "  Lady  Glyde.'*  In  all  other  respects, 
Fosco,  on  that  memorable  day,  was  Fosco  shrouded  in  total 
eclipse. 

She  passed  a  bad  night — she  awoke  worn  out — but  later 
in  the  day  she  revived  amazingly.  My  elastic  spirits  re- 
vived with  her.  I  could  receive  no  answers  from  Percival 
and  Mme.  Rubelle  till  the  morning  of  the  next  day — the 
2Sth.  In  anticipation  of  their  following  my  directions, 
which,  accident  apart,  I  knew  tiiey  would  do,  I  went  to  se- 
cure a  tly  to  fetch  Ludy  Glyde  from  the  railway;  directing 
it  to  be  at  my  house  on  the  2Gth,  at  two  o'clock.  After 
seeing  the  order  entered  in  the  book,  I  went  on  to  arrange 
matters  with  M.  Rubelle.  I  also  procured  the  services  cf 
two  gentlemen  who  could  furnish  me  with  the  necessary 
certificates  of  luaacy.     One  of  them  I  knew  personally;  taQ 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  699 

other  was  known  to  M.  Rubelle.  Both  were  men  whode 
vigorous  minds  soared  superior  to  narrow  scruples — both 
were  laboring  under  temporary  embarrassments — both  be- 
lieved in  ME. 

It  was  past  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  before  I  returned 
from  the  performance  of  these  duties.  When  1  got  back, 
Anne  Catherick  was  dead.  Dead  on  the  25th;  and  Lady 
Glyde  was  not  to  arrive  in  London  till  the  26th! 

1  was  stunned.     Meditate  on  that.     Fosco  stunned! 

It  was  too  late  to  retrace  our  steps.  Before  my  return, 
the  doctor  had  officiously  undertaken  to  save  me  all  trouble, 
by  registering  the  death  on  the  date  when  it  happened,  with 
his  own  hand.  My  grand  scheme,  unassailable  hitherto, 
had  its  weak  place  now — no  efforts  on  my  part  could  alter 
the  fatal  event  of  the  25th.  1  turned  manfully  to  the  fu- 
ture. Percival's  interests  and  mine  being  still  at  stake, 
nothing  was  left  but  to  play  the  game  through  to  the  end. 
I  recalled  my  impenetrable  calm — and  played  it. 

On  the  morning  of  the  26th  Percival's  letter  reached  me, 
announcing  his  wife's  arrival  by  the  midday  train.  Mme. 
Rubelle  also  wrote  to  say  she  would  follow  in  the  evening. 
1  started  in  the  fly,  leaving  the  false  Lady  Glyde  dead  in 
the  house,  to  receive  the  true  Lady  Gldye,  on  her  arrival 
by  the  railway  at  three  o'clock.  Hidden  under  the  seat  of 
the  carriage,  I  carried  with  me  all  the  clothes  Anne  Cath- 
erick had  worn  on  coming  into  my  house — they  were  des- 
tined to  assist  the  resurrection  of  the  woman  who  was  dead 
in  the  person  of  the  woman  who  was  living.  What  a  situ- 
ation! I  suggest  it  to  the  rising  romance  writers  of  Eng- 
land. I  offer  it,  as  totally  new,  to  the  worn-out  dramatists 
of  France. 

Lady  Glyde  was  at  the  station.  There  was  great  crowd- 
ing and  confusion,  and  more  delay  than  1  liked  (in  case  any 
of  her  friends  had  happened  to  be  on  the  spot),  in  reclaim- 
ing her  luggage.  Her  first  questions,  as  we  drove  off,  im- 
plored me  to  tell  her  news  of  her  sister.  1  invented  news 
of  the  most  pacifying  kind;  assuring  her  that  she  was  about 
to  see  her  sister  at  my  house.  My  house,  on  this  occasion 
only,  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  Leicester  Square,  and  was 
in  the  occupation  of  M.  Rubelle,  who  received  us  in  the 
hall. 

I  took  my  visitor  upstairs  into  a  back  room;  the  two 
medical  gentlemen  being  there  in  waiting  on  the  floor  be- 


600  THE     WOMAN    IK    WHITE. 

ii;aih,  to  see  the  patient,  and  to  give  me  their  certificates. 
After  quieting  Lady  Glyde  by  the  necessary  assurances  about 
her  sister,  I  introduced  my  friends,  separately,  to  her  pres- 
ence. They  performed  tiie  formalities  of  the  occasion, 
briefly,  intelligently,  conscientiously.  1  entered  the  room 
again,  as  soon  as  they  had  left  it;  and  at  once  precipitated 
events  by  a  reference,  of  the  alarming  kind,  to  "  Miss  Hal- 
combe's  "  state  of  health. 

Eesults  followed  as  I  had  anticipated.  Lady  Glyde  be- 
came frightened,  and  turned  faint.  For  the  second  time, 
and  the  last,  I  called  Science  to  my  assistance.  A  medi- 
cated glass  of  water,  and  a  medicated  bottle  of  smelling- 
salts,  relieved  her  of  all  further  embarrassment  and  alarm. 
Additional  applications,  later  in  the  evening,  procured  her 
the  inestimable  blessing  of  a  good  night's  rest.  Mme. 
Rubelle  arrived  in  time  to  preside  at  Lady  Glyde's  toilet. 
Her  own  clothes  were  taken  away  from  her  at  night,  and 
Anne  Catherick's  were  put  on  her  in  the  morning,  with  the 
strictest  regard  to  propriety,  bv  the  matronly  hands  of  the 
good  Rubelle.  Tlironghout  the  day  I  kept  our  natient  in 
a  state  of  partially-suspended  consciousness,  until  the  dex- 
terous assistance  of  my  medical  friends  enabled  me  to  pro- 
cure the  necessary  order  rather  earlier  than  I  had  ventured 
to  hope.  That  evening  (the  evening  of  the  27 ih)  Mme. 
Rubelle  and  I  took  our  revived  "  Anne  Catherick  "  to  the 
Asylum.  She  was  received  with  great  surprise — but  with- 
out suspicion;  thanks  to  the  order  and  certificates,  to  Per- 
cival's  letter,  to  the  likeness,  to  the  clothes,  and  to  the  pa- 
tient's own  confused  mental  condition  at  the  time.  I 
returned  at  once  to  assist  Mme.  Fosco  in  the  preparations 
for  the  burial  of  the  false  "  Lady  Glyde,''  having  the  clothes 
and  luggage  of  the  true  "  Lady  Glyde''  in  my  possession. 
They  were  afterward  sent  to  Cumberland  by  the  conveyance 
which  was  used  for  the  funeral.  I  attended  the  funeral 
with  becoming  dignity,  attired  in  the  deepest  mourning. 

My  narrative  of  these  remarkable  events,  written  under 
equally  remarkable  circumstances,  closes  here.  The  minor 
precautions  whif;h  1  observed  in  communicating  with  Lim- 
meridge  House  are  already  known — so  is  the  magnificent 
success  of  my  enterprise — so  are  the  solid  pecuniary  results 
which  followed  it.  I  Inu'C  to  assert,  with  th"  whole  force  of 
my  conviction,  that  the  one  weak  place  in  my  scheme  would 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  601 

never  have  been  found  out,  if  the  one  weak  place  in  my  heart 
had  not  been  discovered  first.  Nothing  but  my  fatal  ad- 
miration for  Marian  restrained  me  from  stepping  in  to  my 
own  rescue  when  she  effected  her  sister's  escape.  I  ran  the 
risk,  and  trusted  in  the  complete  destruction  of  Lady 
Glyde's  identity.  If  either  Marian  or  Mr.  Hartright  at- 
tempted to  assert  that  identity,  they  would  publicly  expose 
themselves  to  the  imputation  of  sustaining  a  rank  decep- 
tion; they  would  be  distrusted  and  discredited  accordingly; 
and  they  would,  therefore,  be  powerless  to  place  my  inter- 
ests, or  Percival's  secret,  in  jeopardy.  1  committed  one 
error  in  trusting  myself  to  such  a  blindfold  calculation  of 
chances  as  this.  I  committed  another  when  Percival  had 
paid  the  penalty  of  his  own  obstinacy  and  violence,  by 
granting  Lady  Glyde  a  second  reprieve  from  the  mad-house, 
and  allowing  Mr.  Hartright  a  second  chance  of  escaping 
me.  In  brief,  Fosco,  at  this  serious  crisis,  was  untrue  to 
himself.  Deplorable  and  uncharacteristic  fault!  Behold 
the  cause,  in  my  Heart — behold,  in  the  image  of  Marian 
Halcombe,  the  first  and  last  weakness  of  Fosco's  life! 

At  the  ripe  age  of  sixty,  1  make  this  unparalleled  confes- 
sion. Youths!  I  invoke  your  sympathy.  Maidens!  I  claim 
your  tears. 

A  word  more — and  th.e  attention  of  the  reader  (concen- 
trated breathlessly  on  myself)  shall  be  released. 

My  own  mental  insight  informs  me  tliat  three  inevitable 
questions  will  be  asked  here  by  persons  of  inquiring  minds. 
They  shall  be  stated:  they  shall  be  answered. 

First  question.  What  is  the  secret  of  Mme.  Fosco's  nn- 
liGsitating  devotion  of  herself  to  the  fulfillment  of  my  bold- 
est wishes,  to  the  furtherance  of  my  deepest  plans?  1 
might  answer  this  by  simply  referring  to  my  own  charac- 
ter, and  by  asking,  in  my  turn*  Where,  in  the  history  of 
the  world,  has  a  man  of  my  order  ever  been  found  without 
a  woman  in  the  background,  self-immolated  on  the  altar  of 
his  life?  But  1  remendier  that  I  am  writing  in  England; 
1  remember  that  I  was  married  in  England — and  1  ask,  if 
a  woman's  marriage  obligations  in  this  country  provide  for 
her  [)rivate  opinion  of  her  husband's  principles?  No!  They 
charge  her  unreservedly  to  love,  honor,  and  obey  him. 
That  is  exactly  what  my  wife  has  done.  I  stand  here  on  a 
Bupreme  moral  elevation,  and  I  loftily  assert  her  accurate 


603  THE    WOMAN    m    WHITE. 

performance  of  her  conjugal  duties.  Silence,  Calumny! 
Your  sympathy.  Wives  of  England,  for  Mnie.  Fosco! 

Second  question.  If  Anne  Catherick  had  not  died  when 
she  did,  what  should  I  have  done?'  I  should,  in  that  case, 
have  assisted  worn-out  Kature  in  finding  permanent  repose. 
1  should  have  opened  the  doors  of  the  Prison  of  Life,  and 
have  extended  to  the  captive  (incurably  afflicted  in  mind 
and  body  both)  a  happy  release. 

Third  question.  On  a  calm  revision  of  all  the  circum- 
stances— Is  my  conduct  worthy  of  any  serious  blame? 
Most  emphatically,  No!  Have  I  not  carefully  avoided  ex- 
posing myself  to  the  odium  of  committing  unnecessary 
crime?  With  my  vast  resources  in  chemistry,  1  might  have 
taken  Lady  Glyde's  life.  At  immense  personal  sacritice, 
I  followed  the  dictates  of  my  own  ingenuity,  my  own 
humanity,  my  own  caution,  and  took  her  identity  instead. 
Judge  me  by  what  I  might  have  done.  How  comparatively 
innocent — how  indirectly  virtuous  I  appear,  in  what  I 
really  did! 

I  announced,  on  beginning  it,  that  this  narrative  would 
be  a  remarkable  document.  It  has  entirely  answered  my 
expectations.  Receive  these  fervid  lines — my  last  legacy 
to  the  country  I  leave  forever.  They  are  worthy  of  the  oc- 
casion, and  worthy  of  Fosco. 


The  Story  concluded  by  Walter  Hartright. 
I. 

When  I  closed  the  last  leaf  of  the  Count's  manuscript, 
the  half-hour  during  which  I  had  engaged  to  remain  at 
Forest  Road  had  expired.  M.  Rubelle  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  bowed.  1  rose  immediately,  and  left  the  agent  in 
possession  of  the  empty  house.  I  never  saw  him  again;  I 
never  heart*  more  of  him  or  of  his  wife.  Out  of  the  dark 
Dy-ways  of  villainy  and  deceit,  they  had  crawled  across  our 
path— into  the  same  by-ways  they  crawled  back  secretly, 
and  were  iost. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  leaving  Forest  Road,  I  was 
at  hom^  again. 

But  few  words  sufficed  to  tell  Laura  and  Marian  how  my 
liesjpcrate  venture  had  ended,  and  what  the  next  event  in 


•THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  603 

our  lives  was  likely  to  be.  1  left  all  details  to  be  describer' 
later  iu  the  day,  and  hastened  back  to  St.  John's  Wood,  to 
see  the  person  of  vviiom  Count  Fosco  had  ordered  the  fly, 
when  he  went  to  meet  Laura  at  the  station. 

The  address  in  my  possession  led  me  to  some  "  livery- 
stables  "' about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant  from  Forest 
Road.  The  proprietor  proved  to  be  a  civil  and  respectable 
man.  AVhen  I  explained  that  an  important  family  matter 
obliged  me  to  ask  him  to  refer  to  his  books  for  the  purpose 
of  ascertaining  a  date  with  which  the  record  of  his  business 
transactions  might  supply  me,  he  offered  no  objection  to 
granting  my  request.  The  book  was  produced;  and  there, 
under  the  date  of  "July  26th,  1850,"  the  order  was  en- 
tered, in  these  words: 

"Brougham  to  Count  Fosco,  5  Forest  Road.  Two 
o'clock.     (John  Owen.)" 

I  found,  on  inquiry,  that  the  name  of  "  John  Owen,"  at- 
tached to  the  entry,  referred  to  the  man  who  had  been  em- 
ployed to  drive  the  fly.  He  was  then  at  work  in  the 
stable-yard,  and  was  sent  for  to  see  me,  at  my  request. 

"  Do  you  remember  driving  a  gentleman,  in  the  month 
of  July  last,  from  Number  Five  Forest  Road,  to  the 
Waterloo  Bridge  station?"  1  asked. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  man;  "  1  can't  exactly  say  I  do." 

"  Perhaps  you  remember  the  gentleman  himself.'*  Can 
you  call  to  mind  driving  a  foreigner  last  summer — a  tall 
gentleman,  and  remarkably  fat?" 

The  man's  face  brightened  directly.  "  1  remember  him, 
sir!  The  fattest  gentleman  as  ever  I  see — and  the  heav- 
iest customer  as  ever  I  drove.  Yes,  yes — I  call  him  to 
mind,  sir.  We  did  go  to  the  station,  and  it  ivas  from 
Forest  Road.  There  was  a  parrot,  or  summut  like  it, 
screeching  in  the  window.  The  gentleman  was  in  a  mor- 
tal hurry  about  the  lady's  luggage;  and  he  gave  me  a  hand- 
some present  for  looking  sharp  and  getting  the  boxes." 

Getting  the  boxes!  1  recollected  immediately  that 
Laura's  own  account  of  herself,  on  her  arrival  in  London, 
described  her  luggage  as  being  collected  for  her  by  some 
person  whom  Count  Fosco  brought  with  him  to  the  station. 
This  was  the  man. 

"  Did  you  see  the  lady?"  I  asked.  "  What  did  she  look 
like?     Was  she  young  or  old?" 

"  Well,  sir,  what  with  the  hurry  and  the  crowd  of  people 


604  TflE    WOMAN    m    WHlTfi. 

pushing  about,  1  caa't  rightly  say  what  the  lady  looked  like. 
1  can't  call  nothing  to  mind  about  her  that  I  know  of — ex- 
cepting her  name/' 

"  You  remember  her  name?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     Her  name  was  Lady  Glyde." 

"  How  do  you  come  to  remember  that,  when  you  have 
forgotten  what  she  looked  like?" 

The  man  smiled,  and  shifted  his  feet  in  some  little  em- 
barrassment. 

"  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,"  he  said,  "  1  hadn't 
been  long  married  at  that  time;  and  my  wife's  name,  be- 
fore she  changed  it  for  mine,  was  the  same  as  the  lady's  — 
meaning  the  name  of  Glyde,  sir.  The  lady  mentioned  it 
herself.  '  Is  your  name  on  your  boxes,  ma'am?'  savs  I. 
'  Yes,'  says  she,  '  my  name  is  on  my  luggage — it  is  Lady 
Glyde.'  '  Come!'  I  says  to  myself,  '  I've  a  bad  head  for 
gentlefolks'  names  in  general — but  this  one  comes  like  an 
old  friend,  at  any  rate.'  1  can't  say  nothing  about  the 
time,  sir:  it  might  be  nigh  on  a  year  ago,  or  it  mightn't. 
But  I  can  swear  to  the  stout  gentleman,  and  swear  to  the 
lady's  name." 

There  was  no  need  that  he  should  remember  the  time; 
the  date  was  positively  established  by  his  master's  order- 
book.  1  felt  at  once  that  the  means  were  now  in  my  power 
of  striking  down  the  whole  conspiracy  at  a  blow  with  the 
irresistible  weapon  of  plain  fact.  Without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  I  took  the  propvietor  of  the  livery-stables  aside, 
and  told  him  what  the  real  importance  was  of  the  evidence 
of  his  order-book  and  the  evidence  of  his  driver.  An  ar- 
rangement to  compensate  him  for  the  temporary  loss  of 
the  man's  services  was  easily  made,  and  a  copy  of  the  entry 
in  the  book  was  taken  by  myself,  and  certified  as  true  by 
the  master's  own  signature.  I  left  the  livery-stables,  hav- 
ing settled  that  John  Owen  was  to  hold  himself  at  my  dis- 
posal for  the  next  three  days,  or  for  a  longer  period,  if  ne- 
cessity required  it. 

I  now  had  in  my  possession  all  the  papers  that  I  wanted; 
the  district  registrar's  own  copy  of  the  certificate  of  death, 
and  Sir  Percival's  dated  letter  to  the  Count,  being  safe  in 
my  pocket-book. 

Willi  this  written  evidence  about  me,  and  with  the  coaci> 
mill's  ai!-\vers  fresh  in   my   memorv,   1   next  turned  mv 


THE    WOMAN"    IN    WHITE.  606 

steps,  for  the  first  time  since  the  begiuuiii;^  of  all  my  in- 
quiries, in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Kyrle's  office.  One  of  my 
objects  in  paying  him  this  second  visit  was,  necessarily,  to 
tell  him  what  I  had  done.  Tlie  other  was  to  warn  him  of 
my  resolutioa  to  take  my  wife  to  Lininicridge  tlio  next 
morning,  and  to  have  her  publicly  received  and  recognized 
in  her  uncle's  house.  1  left  it  to  Mr.  Kyrle  to  decide  undei 
these  circumstances,  and  in  Mr.  Gilmore's absence,  whether 
he  was  or  was  not  bound,  as  the  family  solicitor,  to  be  pres- 
ent on  that  occasion  in  the  family  interests. 

I  will  say  nothing  of  Mr.  Kyrle's  amazement,  or  of  the 
terms  in  which  he  expressed  his  opinion  of  ray  conduct, 
from  the  first  stage  of  the  investigation  to  the  last.  It  is 
only  necessary  to  mention  that  he  at  once  decided  on  ac- 
companying us  to  Cumberland. 

We  started  the  next  morning  by  the  early  train.  Laura, 
Marian,  Mr.  Kyrle,  and  myself  in  one  carriage,  and  John 
Owen,  with  a  clerk  from  Mr.  Kyrle's  office,  occupying 
places  in  another.  On  reaching  the  Limmeridge  station, 
we  went  first  to  the  farm-house  at  Todd's  Corner.  It  was 
my  firm  determination  that  Laura  should  not  enter  her 
uncle's  house  till  she  appeared  there  publicly  recognized 
as  his  niece.  1  left  Marian  to  settle  the  question  of  ac- 
commodation with  Mrs.  Todd  as  soon  as  the  good  woman 
had  recovered  from  the  bewilderment  of  hearing  what  our 
errand  was  in  Cumberland;  and  1  arranged  with  her  hus- 
band that  John  Owen  was  to  be  committed  to  the  ready 
hospitality  of  the  farm-servants.  These  preliminaries  com- 
pleted, Mr.  Kyrle  and  I  set  forth  together  for  Limmeridge 
House. 

I  can  not  write  at  any  length  of  our  interview  with  Mr. 
Fairlie,  for  I  can  not  recall  it  to  mind,  without  feelings  of 
impatience  and  contempt,  which  make  the  scene,  even  in 
remembrance  only,  utterly  repulsive  to  me.  1  prefer  to 
record  simply  that  I  carried  my  point.  Mr.  Fairlie  at- 
tempted to  treat  us  on  his  customary  plan.  We  passed 
without  notice  his  pohte  insolence  at  the  outset  of  the  in- 
terview. We  heard  without  sympathy  the  proteslationa 
with  which  tie  tried  next  to  persuade  us  that  the  disclosure 
oi'  the  conspiracy  had  overwhelmed  him.  He  abs;>lutely 
whined  and  whimpered  at  last  like  a  fretful  child,  "  How 
was  he  to  know  tlmt  lii-^  niece  was  alive,  when  he  was  told 
that  she  was  dead?     '^"^  wrould  welcome  dear  Laura  witli 


606  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

pleasure,  if  we  would  only  allow  him  time  to  recover.  Did 
we  think  helooked  as  if  he  wanted  hurrying  into  his  grave? 
No.  Then  why  hurry  him?"  He  reiterated  these  remon- 
strances at  every  available  opportunity,  until  I  checked  them 
once  for  all  by  placing  him  firmly  between  two  inevitable 
alternatives.  I  gave  him  his  choice  between  doing  his  niece 
justice  on  my  terms,  or  facing  the  consequences  of  a  public 
assertion  of  her  existence  in  a  court  of  law.  Mr.  Kyrle, 
to  whom  he  turned  for  help,  told  him  plainly  that  he  must 
decide  the  question  then  and  there.  Characteristically 
choosing  the  alternative  which  promised  soonest  to  release 
him  from  all  personal  anxiety,  he  announced,  with  a  sud- 
den outburst  of  energy,  that  he  was  not  strong  enough  to 
bear  any  more  bullying,  and  that  we  might  du  as  we  pleased. 

Mr.  Kyrle  and  I  at  once  went  down-stairs,  and  agreed 
upon  a  form  of  letter  which  was  to  be  sent  round  to  the 
tenants  who  had  attended  the  false  funeral,  summoning 
them,  in  Mr.  Fairlie's  name,  to  assemble  in  Limmeridge 
House  on  the  next  day  but  one.  An  order,  referring  to  the 
same  date,  was  also  written,  directing  a  statuary  in  Carlisle 
to  send  a  man  to  Limmeridge  church-yard,  for  the  purpose 
of  erasing  an  inscription — Mr.  Kyrle,  who  had  arranged 
to  sleep  in  the  house,  undertaking  that  Mr.  Fairlie  should 
hear  these  letters  read,  to  him,  and  should  sign  them  with 
his  own  hand. 

I  occupied  theiuterval  day  at  the  farm  in  writing  a  plain 
narrative  of  the  conspiracy,  and  in  adding  to  it  a  statement 
of  the  practical  contradiction  which  facts  offered  to  the  as- 
sertion of  Laura's  death.  This  I  submitted  to  Mr.  Kyrle, 
before  I  read  it,  the  next  day,  to  the  assembled  tenants. 
We  also  arranged  the  form  in  which  the  evidence  should 
be  presented  at  the  close  of  the  reading.  After  these  mat- 
terr,  were  settled,  Mr.  Kyrle  endeavored  to  turn  the  con- 
versation next  to  Laura's  affairs.  Knowing,  and  desiring 
uO  know,  nothing  of  those  affairs,  and  doubting  whether  he 
would  approve,  as  a  man  of  business,  of  my  conduct  in  re- 
lation to  my  wife's  life  interest  in  the  legacy  left  to  Mme. 
Fosco,  I  begged  Mr.  Kyrle  to  excuse  me  if  I  abstained  from 
discussing  the  subject.  It  was  connected,  as  I  could  truly 
tell  him,  with  those  sorrows  and  troubles  of  the  past,  which 
we  never  referred  to  among  ourselves,  and  which  we  in- 
stinctively shrunk  from  discussing  with  others. 

My  last  labor,  as  the  evening  approached,  was  to  obtain 


THE    WOMAK    IN    WHITE.  607 

*'  The  Narrative  of  the  Tombstone,"  by  taking  a  copy  of 
the  false  inscription  on  the  grave  before  it  was  erased. 

The  day  came — the  day  when  Laura  once  more  entered 
the  familiar  breakfast-room  at  Limmeridgo  House.  All 
the  persons  assembled  rose  from  their  seats  as  Marian  and 
I  led  her  in.  A  perceptible  shock  of  surprise,  an  audible 
uaurmur  of  interest,  ran  through  them,  at  the  sight  of  her 
face.  Mr.  Fairlie  was  present  (by  my  express  stipulation), 
with  Mr.  Kyrle  by  his  side.  His  valet  stood  behind  him 
with  a  smelling-bottle  ready  in  one  hand,  and  a  white 
handkerchief,  saturated  with  eau-de-Cologne,  in  the  other. 

1  opened  the  proceedings  by  publicly  appealing  to  Mr. 
Fairlie  to  say  whether  I  appeared  there  with  his  authority 
and  under  his  express  sanction.  He  extended  an  arm  on 
either  side  to  Mr.  Kyrle  and  to  his  valet;  was  by  them  as- 
sisted to  stand  on  his  legs;  and  then  expressed  himself  in 
these  terms:  "  Allow  me  to  present  Mr.  Hartright.  I  am 
as  great  an  invalid  as  ever;  and  he  is  so  very  obliging  as  to 
speak  for  me.  The  subject  is  dreadfully  embarrassing. 
Please  hear  him — and  don't  make  a  noise!"  With  those 
words,  he  slowly  sunk  back  again  into  the  chair,  and  took 
refuge  in  his  scented  pocket-handkerchief. 

The  disclosure  of  the  conspiracy  followed — after  1  had 
offered  my  preliminary  explanation,  first  of  all,  in  the  few- 
est and  the  plainest  words.  I  was  there  present  (1  informed 
my  heareis)  to  declare  first,  that  my  wife,  then  sitting  by 
me,  was  the  daughter  of  the  late  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie;  sec- 
ondly, to  prove  by  positive  facts  that  the  funeral  which  they 
had  attended  in  Limmeridge  church-yard  was  the  funeral 
of  another  woman;  thirdly,  to  give  them  a  plain  account 
of  how  it  had  all  happened.  Without  further  preface,  1  at 
once  read  the  narrative  of  the  conspiracy,  describing  it  in 
clear  outline,  and  dwelling  only  upon  the  pecuniary  motive 
for  it,  in  order  to  avoid  complicating  my  statement  by  un- 
necessary reference  to  Sir  Percival's  secret.  This  done,  I 
reminded  my  audience  of  the  date  on  the  inscription  in  the 
church-}ard  (the  25th),  and  confirmed  its  correctness  by 
producing  the  certificate  of  death.  I  then  read  them  Sir 
Percival's  letter  of  the  35th,  announcing  his  wife's  intended 
journey  from  Hampshire  to  London  on  the  26th.  I  next 
showed  that  she  had  taken  that  journey  by  the  personal 
testimony  of  the  driver  of  the  fly;  and  I  proved  that  she 


g08  THK    WOMAN    IN    WHITK. 

had  performed  it  ou  the  appoiuted  day  by  the  order-book 
ut  the  Ijvcry-slables.  Muiiaii  then  added  her  own  state- 
ment of  the  meeting  between  Laura  and  herself  at  the  mad- 
house, and  of  her  sister's  escape.  After  which  1  closed  the 
proceedings  by  informing  the  persons  present  of  Sir  Preci- 
val's  death,  and  of  my  marriage.  * 

Mr.  Kyrle  rose,  when  1  resumed  my  seat,  and  declared, 
as  tlie  legal  adviser  of  the  family,  that  my  case  was  proved 
by  the  plainest  evidence  he  had  ever  heard  in  his  life.  Af 
he  spoke  those  words,  I  put  my  arm  round  Laura,  and 
raised  her  so  that  she  was  plainly  visible  to  every  one  in 
the  room.  "  Are  you  all  of  the  same  opinion?"  1  asked, 
advancing  toft'ard  them  a  few  steps,  and  pointing  to  my 
wife. 

The  effect  of  the  question  was  electrical.  Far  down  at 
t!ie  lower  end  of  the  room,  one  of  the  oldest  tenants  on  the 
estate  started  to  his  feet,  and  led  the  rest  with  him  in  an 
instant.  I  see  the  man  now,  with  his  honest  brown  face 
and  his  iron-gray  hair,  mounted  on  the  window-seat,  wav- 
ing his  heavy  ridnig-whip  over  his  head,  and  leading  the 
cheers.  "  There  she  is,  alive  and  hearty— God  bless  her! 
Gi'  it  tongue,  lads!  Gi'  it  tongue!"  The  shout  that  an' 
swered  him,  reiterated  again  and  again,  was  the  sweetest 
music  I  ever  heard.  The  laborers  in  the  village  and  the 
boys  from  the  school,  assembled  on  the  lawn,  caught  up 
the  cheering  and  echoed  it  back  on  us.  The  farmers'  wives 
clustered  round  Laura,  and  struggled  which  should  be  tirst 
to  shake  hands,  with  her,  aiid  to  implore  her,  with  the  tears 
pouring  over  their  own  cheeks,  to  bear  up  bravely,  and  not 
to  cry.  She  was  so  completely  overwhelmed,  that  I  was 
obliged  to  take  her  from  them,  and  carry  her  to  the  door. 
There  1  gave  her  into  Marian's  care — Marian,  who  had 
never  faifed  us  yet,  whose  courageous  self-control  did  not 
fail  us  now.  Left  by  myself  at  the  door,  I  invited  all  the 
persons  present  (after  thanking  them  in  Laura's  name  and 
mine)  to  follow  me  to  the  church-yard,  and  see  the  false 
inscription  struck  off  the  tombstone  with  their  own  eyes. 

Tkiey  all  left  the  house,  and  all  joined  the  throng  of  vil- 
lagers collected  round  the  grave,  where  the  statuary's  man 
was  waiting  for  us.  Li  a  breathless  silence,  the  first  sharp 
stroke  of  the  steel  sounded  en  the  marble.  Not  a  voice 
was  hoard,  not  a  soul  moved,  till  those  three  words, 
"  Laura,  Lady  Glyde,"  had  vanished  from  sight.     Then 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  GOO 

there  was  a  great  heave  of  relief  among  the  crowd,  a?  if 
ihey  felt  that  the  last  fetters  of  the  conspiracy  had  been 
struck  off  Laura  herself,  and  the  assembly  slowly  with- 
drew. It  was  late  in  ine  .}ay  before  the  whole  inscription 
was  erased.  One  line  only  wus  aftorvvard  engraved  in  its 
place:  '*Anne  Catherick,  July  25th,  1850." 

I  returned  to  Limmeridge  House  early  enough  in  the 
evening  to  take  leave  of  Me.  Kyrle.  He  and  hiscleik,  and 
the  driver  of  the  fly,  went  back  to  London  by  the  night 
train.  On  their  depaiture,  an  insolent  message  was  de- 
livered to  me  from  Mr.  Fairlie,  who  had  been  carried 
from  the  room  in  a  shattered  condition  when  the  first 
outbreak  of  cheering  answered  my  appeal  to  the  tenantry. 
The  message  conveyed  to  us  "  Mr.  Fairlie's  best  con- 
gratulations," and  requested  to  know  whether  '*  we  con- 
templated stopping  in  the  house."  I  sent  back  word  that 
the  only  object  for  which  we  had  entered  his  doors  was 
accomplished  ;  that  I  contemplated  stopping  in  no  man's 
house  but  my  own;  and  that  Mr.  Fairlie  need  not  enter- 
tain the  slighest  apprehension  of  ever  seeing  us,  or  hear- 
ing from  us  again.  We  went  back  to  our  friends  at  the 
farm  to  rest  that  night;  and  the  next  morning — escorted 
to  the  station,  with  the  heartiest  enthusiasm  and  good- 
will, by  the  whole  village,  and  by  all  the  farrr^eis  in  the 
neighborhood — we  returned  to  London. 

As  our  view  of  the  Cumberland  hills  faded  in  the  dis- 
tance, I  thought  of  the  first  disheartening  circumstances 
under  which  the  long  struggle  that  was  now  past  and  over 
had  been  pursued.  It  was  strange  to  look  back  and  to  see 
now,  that  the  poverty  which  had  denied  us  all  hope  of  as- 
sistance, had  been  the  indirect  means  of  our  success,  by 
forcing  me  to  act  for  myself.  If  we  had  been  rich  enough 
to  find  legal  help,  what  would  have  been  the  result?  The 
gain  (on  Mr.  Kyrle'sown  showing)  would  have  been  more 
than  doubtful  ;  the  loss — judging  by  the  plain  test  of 
events  as  they  had  really  happened — certain.  The  Law 
would  never  have  obtained  me  my  interview  with  IVfrs. 
Catherick.  The  Law  would  never  have  made  Pesca  the 
means  of  forcing  a  confession  from  the  Count. 

II. 
Two  more  events  remain  to  be  added  to  the  chain,  before 
it  reaches  fairly  from  the  outset  of  the  story  to  the  close. 

MO 


6ld  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

While  our  new  sense  of  fieedum  froui  the  long  oppression 
of  the  past  was  still  strange  to  us,  1  was  sent  for  by  the 
friend  who  had  given  me  ni}'  first  employment  in  wood- 
engraving,  to  receive  from  him  a  fresh  testimony  of  liis  re- 
gard for  my  welfare.  He  had  been  commissioned  by  his 
employer  logo  to  Paris,  and  to  examine  for  them  a  French 
discovery  in  the  practical  application  of  his  Art  the  merits 
of  which  they  were  anxious  to  ascertain.  His  own  engage- 
ments had  not  allowed  him  leisure  time  to  undertake 
the  errand,  and  he  had  most  kindly  suggested  that  it  should 
be  transferred  to  me.  I  could  have  no  hesitation  in  thank- 
fully accepting  the  offer;  for  if  I  acquitted  myself  of  my 
commission  as  I  hoped  I  should,  the  result  would  be  a  per- 
manent engagement  on  the  illustrated  newspaper,  to  which 
I  was  now  only  occasionally  attached. 

1  received  my  instructions  and  packed  up  for  the  journey 
the  next  day.  On  leaving  Laura  once  more  (under  what 
ciianged  circumstaucesi)  m  her  sister's  care,  a  serious  con- 
sideration recurred  to  me,  which  had  more  than  once  crossed 
my  wife's  mind,  as  well  as  my  own,  already — 1  mean  the 
consideration  of  Marian's  future.  Had  we  any  right  to  let 
our  selfish  affection  accept  the  devotion  of  all  that  generous 
life?  Was  it  not  our  duty,  our  best  expression  of  grati- 
tude, to  forget  ourselves,  and  to  think  only  of  //erf  I  tried 
to  say  this,  when  we  were  alone  for  a  moment,  before  I 
went  away.  She  took  ;uy  hand  and  silenced  me  at  the  first 
words. 

"  After  all  that  we  three  have  suffered  together,"  she  said, 
"  there  can  be  no  parting  between  us  till  the  last  parting  of 
all.  My  heart  and  my  happiness,  Walter,  are  with  Laura 
and  you.  Wait  a  little  till  there  are  children's  voices  at 
your  fireside,  I  will  teach  them  to  speak  for  me  in  their 
language;  and  the  first  lesson  they  say  to  their  father  and 
mother  shall  be — We  can't  spare  our  aunti" 

My  journey  to  Paris  was  not  undertaken  alone.  At  the 
eleventh  hour  Pesca  decided  that  he  would  accompany  me. 
He  had  not  recovered  his  customary  cheerfulness  since  the 
night  at  the  Opera;  and  he  determined  to  try  what  a  week's 
holiday  would  do  to  raise  his  spirits. 

T  performed  the  errand  intrusted  to  nic,  and  t^vpv  out 
the  necessary  report,  on  the  fourth  day  from  our  arnvai  lu 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  CU 

Paris.  The  fifth  day  I  arranged  to  devote  to  sight-seeing 
and  amusements  in  Pesca's  company. 

Our  hotel  had  been  too  full  to  accommodate  us  both  on  the 
same  floor.  My  room  was  on  the  second  story,  and  Pesca's 
was  above  me,  on  the  third.  On  the  morning  of  the  fifth 
day,  I  went  upstairs  to  see  if  the  Professor  was  ready  to  go 
out.  Just  before  I  reached  the  lauding,  I  saw  his  door 
opened  from  the  inside;  a  long,  delicate,  nervous  hand  (not 
my  friend's  hand  certainly)  held  it  ajar.  At  the  same  time 
1  heard  Pesca's  voice  saying  eagerly,  in  low  tones,  and  in 
his  own  language:  "  I  remember  the  mime,  but  I  don't 
know  the  man.  You  saw  at  the  Opera  he  was  so  changed 
that  1  could  not  recognize  him.  I  will  forward  the  report — 1 
can  do  no  more.''  "  No  more  need  be  done,"  answered  a 
second  voice.  The  door  oj)ened  wide;  and  the  Iij);ht-haired 
man  with  the  scar  on  his  cheek — the  man  1  Imd  seen  fol- 
lowing Count  Fosco's  cab  a  week  before — came  out.  He 
bowed,  as  I  drew  aside  to  let  him  pass — his  face  was  fear- 
fully pale — and  he  held  fast  by  the  balusters  as  he  descended 
the  stairs.  ^ 

1  pushed  open  the  door,  tlnd  entered  Pesca's  room.  He 
was  crouched  up,  in  the  strangest  manner,  in  a  corner  of 
the  sofa.  He  seemed  to  shrink  from  u)e  when  I  approached 
him. 

"  Am  I  disturbing  you?"  1  asked.  "  I  did  not  know  you 
had  a  friend  with  you  till  I  saw  him  come  out." 

"  No  friend,"  said  Pesca,  eagerl}'.  "I  see  him  to-day 
for  the  first  time,  and  the  last," 

"  I  am  afraid  he  has  brought  you  bad  news?" 

"  Horrible  news,  Walter!  Let  us  go  back  to  London — I 
don't  want  to  stop  here — I  am  sorry  I  ever  came.  The 
misfortunes  of  my  youth  are  very  hard  upon  me,"  he  said, 
turning  his  face  to  the  wall;  "  very  hard  upon  me  in  my 
later  time.  1  try  to  forget  them — and  they  will  not  forget 
me  !" 

"  We  can't  return,  1  am  afraid,  before  the  afternoon," 
1  replied.  "  Would  you  like  to  come  out  with  me  in  the 
meantime?" 

"  No,  my  friend;  I  will  wait  here.  But  let  us  go  back 
to-day — pray  let  us  go  back. " 

I  left  him  with  the  assurance  that  he  should  leave  Paris 
that  afternoon.  We  had  arranged,  the  evening  before,  to 
ascend  the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame,  with  Viotor  Hugo's 


31?  THE    WOMAN    IJ^    WHITE. 

noble  romance  for  our  guide.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
French  capital  that  J  was  more  anxious  to  see,  and  I  de- 
{.m.-ied  by  myself  for  the  church. 

Approaohiug  Notre  Dame  by  the  river-side,  I  passed,  on 
ray  way,  that  terrible  dead-hor,se  oi  Paris — the  Morgue.  A 
gi-eat  Ciowd  clamored  and  heaved  round  the  door.  There 
was  evidently  something  inside  which  excited  the  popular 
curiosity,  and  fed  the  popular  appetite  for  horror. 

1  should  have  walkad  on  to  the  church,  if  the  conversa- 
tion of  two  men  and  a  woman  on  the  outskirts  ci  the  crowd 
had  not  caught  my  ear.  They  had  just  come  out  from 
seeing  the  sight  in  the  Morgue;  and  the  account  they  were 
giving  of  the  dead  body  to  their  neighbors,  described  it  as 
the  corpse  of  a  man — a  man  cf  immense  size,  with  a  strange 
mark  on  his  left  arm. 

The  moment  those  words  reached  me,  1  stopped^  and  took 
my  place  with  the  crowd  going  in.  Some  dim  foreshadow- 
ing of  the  truth  had  crossed  my  mind  when  I  heard  Fesca's 
voice  through  the  open  door,  and  when  I  saw  the  str&nger's 
face  as  he  passed  me  on  the  stairs  of  the  hotel.  Novv  the 
truth  itself  was  revealed  to  me — revealed,  in  the  chance 
words  that  had  just  reached  my  ears.  Other  vengeance 
than  mine  had  followed  that  fated  man  from  the  theater 
/;o  his  own  door;  from  his  own  door  to  his  refuge  in  Paris. 
Other  vengeance  than  mine  had  called  him  to  the  df.-y  of 
reckoning,  and  had  exacted  from  him  the  penalty  of  his  Jife. 
The  moment  when  I  had  pointed  him  out  to  Pesca  at  the 
theater,  in  the  hearing  of  that  stranger  by  our  side^,  who 
was  looking  for  him  too — was  the  moment  that  sealed  his 
doom.  I  remembered  the  struggle  in  my  own  heart  when 
he  and  I  stood  face  to  face — the  struggle  before  I  could  let 
him  escape  me — and  shuddered  as  I  recalled  it. 

Slowly,  inch  by  inch,  1  pressed  in  with  the  crowd,  moving 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  great  glass  screen  that  parts  the 
dead  from  the  living  at  the  Morgue — nearer  and  nearer,  till 
I  was  close  behind  the  front  row  of  spectators,  and  ccnld 
look  in. 

There  he  lay,  unowned,  unknown;  exposed  to  the  flip- 
pant curiosity  of  a  French  mob!  There  was  the  dreadful 
end  of  that  long  life  of  degraded  ability  and  heartless  crime! 
Hushed  in  the  sublime  repose  of  death,  the  broad,  firm, 
-aassivG  face  arid  head  fronted  us  so  grandly,  that  the  chat- 
terJng  French  womeu  about  me  lifted  their  hands  in  admira- 


THE    WOMAN     IN     WHIIG.  613 

tion,  and  cried,  in  shnll  chorus,  "  Ah,  ivhai  a  liaiKjsome 
man!"  The  wound  that  had  killed  him  liad  been  struck 
with  a  knife  or  dagger  exactly  over  his  heart.  No  olhor 
traces  of  violence  appeared  about  the  boily  except  on  the 
left  arm;  and  there,  exactly  in  the  place  where  I  had  seen 
the  brand  on  Pesca's  arm,  were  two  deep  cuts  in  the  sluipe 
of  the  letter  T,  which  entirely  obliterated  the  mark  of  the 
Brotherhood.  His  clothes,  hung  about  him,  showed  that 
he  had  been  himself  conscious  of  his  danger;  they  were 
clothes  that  had  disguised  him  as  a  French  artisan.  For 
a  few  moments,  but  not  for  longer,  I  forced  myself  to  see 
these  things  through  the  glass  screen.  I  can  write  of  them 
at  no  greater  length,  for  1  saw  no  more. 

The  few  facts  in  connection  with  his  death  which  1  subse- 
quently ascertained  (partly  from  Pesca  and  partly  fr(»m 
other  sources),  may  be  stated  here,  before  the  subject  is 
dismissed  from  these  pages. 

His  body  was  taken  out  of  the  Seine,  in  the  disguise  which 
I  have  described;  nothing  being  found  on  him  which  re- 
vealed his  name,  his  rank,  or  his  phice  of  abode.  The  hand 
that  struck  him  was  never  traced,  and  the  circumstances 
under  which  he  was  killed  were  never  discovered.  1  leave 
others  to  draw  their  own  conclusions  in  reference  to  the 
secret  of  the  assassination,  as  1  have  drawn  mine.  When  I 
have  intimated  that  the  foreigner  with  the  scar  was  a  Mem- 
ber of  the  Brotherhood  (admitted  in  Italy,  after  Pesca's  de- 
parture from  his  native  country),  and  wdien  1  have  further 
added  that  the  two  cuts,  in  the  form  of  a  T,  on  the  left 
arm  of  the  dead  man,  signified  the  Italian  word,  "  Tradi- 
tore,"  and  showed  that  justice  had  been  done  by  the  Brother- 
hood on  a  traitor,  1  have  contributed  all  that  I  know 
toward  elucidating  the  mystery  of  Count  Fosco's  death. 

The  body  was  identified  the  day  after  I  had  seen  it,  by 
means  of  an  anonymous  letter  addressed  to  his  wife.  He  was 
buried  by  Mme.  Fosco  in  the  cemetei-y  of  Pere  la  Chaise. 
Fresh  funeral  wreaths  continue,  to  this  day,  to  be  hung  on 
the  ornamental  bronze  railings  round  the  tomb  by  thf 
Countess's  own  hand.  She  lives,  in  the  strictest  retirement, 
at  Versailles.  Not  long  since  she  published  a  Biography 
of  her  deceased  husband.  The  work  throws  no  light  what- 
ever on  the  name  that  was  really  his  own,  or  on  the  secnL 
history  of  his  life;  it  is  almost  entirely  devoted  to  the  praise 


614  THE  Woman  in  white. 

of  liis  domestio  virtues,  the  assertion  of  his  rare  abilities, 
and  the  eiiumeratioii  of  tiie  honors  conferred  on  him.  The 
circiunstance!^'  iil Lending  his  dcaLh  are  very  briefly  noticed; 
and  are  summed  up  on  the  last  page  in  this  sentence:  "  His 
life  was  one  long  assertion  of  the  rights  of  the  aristocracy, 
and  the  sacred  principles  of  order,  and  he  died  a  iuartyr  to 
his  cause/' 


III. 

The  summer  and  autumn  passed,  after  my  return  from 
Paris,  and  brought  no  changes  with  them  which  need  be 
noticed  here.  We  lived  so  simply  and  quietly,  that  the  in- 
come which  I  was  now  steadily  earning  sufficed  for  all  our 
wants. 

In  the  February  of  the  new  5'ear  our  first  child  was  born 
— a  son.  My  mother  and  sister  and  Mrs.  Vesey  were  our 
guests  at  the  little  christening-party;  and  Mrs.  Clements  was 
present,  to  assist  my  wife,  on  the  same  occasion.  Marian 
was  our  boy's  godmother,  and  Pesca  and  Mr.  Gilmore  (the 
latter  acting  by  proxy)  were  his  godfathers.  1  may  add 
here,  that,  when  Mr.  Gilmore  returned  to  us,  a  year  later, 
he  assisted  the  design  of  these  pages,  at  my  request,  by 
writing  the  Narrative  which  appears  early  in  the  story 
under  his  name  and  which,  though  first  in  o:der  of  preced- 
ence, was  thus,  in  order  of  time,  the  last  that  I  received. 

The  only  event  in  our  lives  which  now  remains  to  be  re- 
corded occurred  when  our  little  Walter  was  six  months  old. 

At  that  time  I  was  sent  to  Ireland,  to  make  sketches  for 
certain  forthcoming  illustrations  in  the  newspaper  to  which 
I  was  attached.  I  was  away  for  nearly  a  fortnight,  corre- 
sponding regularly  with  my  wife  and  Marian,  except  during 
ihe  last  three  days  of  my  absence,  when  my  movements 
were  too  uncertain  to  enable  me  to  receive  letters.  I  per- 
formed the  latter  part  of  my  journey  back  at  night;  and 
when  I  reached  home  in  the  morning,  to  my  utter  astonish- 
ment, there  was  no  one  to  rc^cieve  me.  Laura  and  Marian 
and  the  child  had  left  the  house  01  the  day  before  my  re- 
turn. 

A  note  from  my  wife,  which  was  given  tome  by  the  serv- 
ant, only  increased  my  surprise  by  informing  me  that  they 
had  gone  to  LimniRridge  House.  Marian  had  prohibited 
any  attempt  at  written  exnlanations — I   was  entreated  to 


THE     WOMAN     IN    WHTTR.  615 

follow  them  the  moment  I  came  back — complete  enlighten- 
ment awaited  me  on  my  arrival  in  Cumberland — and  I  was 
forbidden  to  feel  the  slightest  anxiety  in  the  meantime. 
There  the  note  ended. 

It  was  still  early  enough  to  catch  the  morning  train.  1 
reached  Limmeridge  House  the  same  afternoon. 

My  wife  and  Marian  were  both  upstairs.  They  had  estab- 
lished themselves  (by  way  of  completing  my  amazement) 
in  the  little  room  which  had  been  once  assigned  to  me  for 
a  studio  when  I  was  employed  on  Mr.  Fairlie's  drawings. 
On  the  very  chair  which  I  used  to  occupy  when  I  was  at 
work  Marian  was  sitting  now,  with  the  child  industriously 
sucking  his  coral  upon  her  lap,  while  Laura  was  standing 
by  the  well-remembered  drawing- table  which  I  had  so  often 
used,  with  the  little  album  that  J  had  filled  for  her  in  past 
times  open  under  her  hand. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  Heaven  has  brought  you  here?" 
1  asked.     "  Does  Mr.  Fairlie  know — ?" 

Marian  suspended  the  question  on  my  lips,  by  telling  me 
that  Mr.  Fairlie  was  dead.  He  had  been  struck  by  paraly- 
sis, and  had  never  rallied  after  the  shock.  Mr.  Kyrle  had 
informed  them  of  his  death,  and  had  advised  them  to  pro- 
ceed immediately  to  Limmeridge  House. 

Some  dim  perception  of  a  great  change  dawned  on  my 
mind.  Laura  spoke  before  I  had  quite  realized  it.  She 
stole  close  to  me,  to  enjoy  the  surprise  which  was  still  ex- 
pressed in  my  face. 

"  My  darling  Walter,"  she  said,  "  must  we  really  account 
for  our  boldness  in  coming  here?  1  am  afraid,  love,  1  can 
only  explain  it  by  breaking  though  our  rule,  and  referring 
to  the  past." 

"  There  is  not  the  least  necessity  for  doing  anything  of 
the  kind,"  said  Marian.  "  We  can  be  just  as  explicit,  and 
much  more  interesting,  by  referring  to  the  future. "  She 
rose,  and  held  up  the  child,  kicking  and  crowing  in  her 
arms.  "  Do  you  know  who  this  is,  Walter?"  she  asked, 
with  bright  tears  of  happiness  gathering  in  her  eyes. 

"  Even  my  bewilderment  has  its  limits,"  1  replied.  "  I 
think  I  can  still  answer  for  knowing  my  own  child." 

"  Child!"  she  exclaimed,  with  ail  her  easygayety  of  old 
times.  "  Do  you  talk  in  that  familiar  manner  of  one  of 
the  landed  gentry  of  England?  Are  you  aware,  when  I 
present  this  illustrious  baby  to  your  notice,  in  whose  pres- 


6T6  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

eiice  you  stand?  Evidently  not!  Let  me  make  two  emi- 
nent personages  known  to  each  other:  Mr.  Walter  Hart- 
i-ight — tite  Heir  of  Limmeridye." 

80  she  spoke.  In  writing  those  last  words,  I  have  written 
•all.  The  pen  falters  in  my  hand;  the  long,  happy  labor  of 
many  months  is  over!  Marian  was  ihe  good  angel  of  our 
iives — lee  Marian  end  our  8torj. 


THE    EKD. 


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UUrrS  HOME  UEkARY.     Cloth.     Gi2tTopA.    Price.  S1.3: 

Abbe    Constantin.      By    Halevy. 

Abbot,  The.     By   Sir  Walter   Scott. 

Adam    Bede.      By   George   Eliot. 

Addison's  Essays.  By  JoseDh  Addison. 

^neid   of   Virgil. 

/_':op's  Fables. 

Alexander,    the    Great,    Life    of.      By 

John    Williams. 
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Thomas  Hughes. 
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All    Sorts    and    Conditions    of    Men. 

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Amiel's   Journal. 
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Anne  of  Geirstein.     Sir  Walter  Scott. 
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Arnold,  Benedict,  Life  of.  By  George 

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George   Macdonald. 
Attic    Philosopher.    Emile    Souvestre. 
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O.    W.   Holmes. 
Bacon's    Essays.      By    Francis    Bacon. 
Barnaby  Rudge.   By   Charles  Dickens. 
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'  Black  Beauty.     By  Anna   Sewell. 
Black  Dwarf,  The.   Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Black   Rock.      By   Ralph   Connor. 
Black  Tulip,   The.      By  Alex.   Dumas. 
Bleak   House.        By  Charles   Dickens. 
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thaniel Hawthorne. 
Bondsman,   The.      By   Hall   Caine. 
Book  of  Golden   Deeds.   By  Charlotte 

M.   Yonge. 
Boone,   Daniel-   Life  of.    By  Cecil  B. 

Hartley  "" 
Bride  of  Lanii.icrmoor.  By  Sir  Walter 

Scott. 
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Browning's  Poems.     (RobTt.^ 


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Burgomasters'  Wife.     George  Ebcra. 
Burns'   Poems.    By  Robert  Burns. 
By  Order  of  the  King.  By  Hugo. 
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Anthony    Froude. 
Carson,    Kit,  -^ife    of.      By    Charle» 

Burdett. 
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Cast  Up  by  the  Sea.     Sir  S.  Baker. 
Charles  Auchester.     By  E.   Berger. 
Character.      By    Samuel    Smiles. 
Charlemagne      (Charles     the     Great)^ 

Life   of.    By   Thomas   Hodgkin. 
Charles   O'Malley.   By   Charles   Lever. 
Chesterfield's      Letters.         By       Lord 

Chesterfield. 
Chevalier  de  Maison  Rouge.     By  Al- 
exander Dumas. 
Children    of    the   Abbey.     By    Regina 

Maria    Roche. 
Chicot  the  Jester.     By  Alex.   Dumas. 
Child's     History     of     England.        By 

Charles   Dickens. 
Christmas    Stories.    Charles    Dickens. 
Cloister  and  the  Hearth.     By  Charles 

Reade. 
Coleridge's   Poems.      By   S.   T,    Cole 

ridge. 
Columbus,    Christopher,    Life   of.     By 

Washington  Irving. 
Companions    of    Jehu,    The.      Dumas, 
Complete   Angler.   Walton  &  Cotton. 
Conduct    of    Life.    R.    W.    Emerson. 
Confessions  of  an   Opium  Eater.      By 

Thomas  de   Quincey. 
Conquest   of   Granada.      By   Washing- 
ton Irving. 
Conquest    of    Mexico,    Vol.     I.       By 

Wm.   H.    Prescott. 
Conquest    of    Mexico.     Vol.    II.      By 

\Vm.  11.   Prescott. 
Conquest  of  Peru.     Vol.  I.     Br  Wm, 

H.   Prescott 
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H.   Prescott. 
Conspiracy    of    Pontiac.     By    Francig 

Parkman,    Jr. 

Conspirators,  The.    Dumas. 
Consuelo.      By    George    Sard. 
Cook's  Voyages.   Captain  James  Cook. 
Corinne.      By   Madame   de    Stael. 
Count  ('£   Mor,;e  Cristo.     Vol.  I.    By 
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Countess   of    Rudolstadt.    Geo.    Sand, 

Country  Doctor.   By  H.   de   Balzac. 

Courtship   of   Miles   Standish.    By  H. 
VV.    Longfellow. 

Cranford.      By    Mrs.    Gaskell. 

Crockett,  David.    An  autobiography. 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  Life  of.     By  Edwin 
Paxton  Hood. 

Crusades,  The.    By  George  W.    Cox. 

Daniel  Deronda.     By  George  Eliot. 

Data  of  Ethics.    By  Herbert  Spencer. 

Daughter  of  an  Empress.     By  Louisa 
Muhlback. 

David    Copperfield.    Charles   Dickens. 

Days  of  Bruce.   By  Grace  Aguilar. 

Deemster,   The.      By  Hall   Caine. 

Deerslayer,  The.    By  J.   F.   Cooper. 

Descent  of  Man.  By  Charles  Darwin. 

Discourses  of  Epictetus. 

Divine       Comedy,       The.         (Dante.) 
Translated  by  Rev.   H-  F.   Carey. 

Dombey    &    Son.    Charles    Dickenf. 

Donal   Grant.     George  Macdonald. 

Donovan.     By    Edna    Lyall. 

Dove  in  the  Eagle's  Nest.     By  Char- 
lotte  M.   Yonge. 

Dreum  Life.     By  Ik  Marvel. 

Dr.   Jeky-I   and  Mr.   Hyde.   By  R.   L. 
Stevenson. 

Duty.     By  Samuel  Smiles. 

East  Lyme.   By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood. 

Education.     By   Herbert    Spencer. 

Egoist.      By    George    Meredith. 

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zon.     By   Jules    Verne. 

Eliot's   Poems.      By   George   Eliot. 

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oT.      Edward    Spencer    Beesly. 

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Essays  in  Criticism.  Matthew  Arnold. 

Essays   of   Elia.      By    Charles   Lamb. 

Evangeline.    By    H.    W.    Longfellow. 

Fair  Maid  of  Perth.  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Fairly  Land   of   Science.   B     Arabella 
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Felix  Holt.      B/   George   Eliot. 

Fifteen  Decisive  Battles  of  the  World. 

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File    No.    113.      By    Emile    Gaboriau. 
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For  Lilias.     By  Rosa.  N.  Carey. 
Forty-Five     Guardsmen.       Dumas, 
Foul   Play.      By   Charles   Reade. 
Fragments   of   Science.   John   Tyndall. 
Franklin,     Benjamin,     Life     of.       An 

autobiography. 
Frederick   the    Great    and   His    Court. 

By  Louisa  Muhlback. 
Frederick,    tht    Great,    Life    of.      B> 

Francis   Kugler. 
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dore  Dwight. 
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Gold  Elsie.     By  E.  Marlltt. 
Golden  Treasury.   By  T.  Palgravc. 
Goldsmith's    Poems. 
Grandfather's     Chair.     By     Nathaniel 

Hawthorne. 
Grant,    Ulysses    S.,    Life    of.      By    J. 

T.    Headley. 
Gray's   Poems.     Thomas   Gray. 
Great  Expectations,     Charles  Dickens. 
Greek  Heroes.    Charles   Kingsley. 
Green    Mountain    Boys,   The.      By   D. 

P.  Thompson. 
Grimm's  Household  Tales, 
Grimm's   Popular   Tales. 
Gulliver's  Travels.     By  Dean   Switt. 
Guy   Mannering.      Sir   Walter   Scott. 
Hale,    Nathan,    the    Martryr    Spy.    By 

Charlotte    M.    HoUoway. 
Handy   Andy.      By    Samuel    Loyer. 
Hannibal,    the    Carthaginian,    Life    of. 

By  Thomas  Arnold. 
Hardy  Norseman.   By  Edna  Lyall. 
Harold.      By    Bulwer-Lytton. 
Harry    Lorreqaer.      Charles    Lever. 
Heart  of   Midlothian.   By   Sir   Walter 

Scott. 

Heir  of   Recl-'vfte.     By   Charlotte  M. 
Yonge. 

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Wirt, 

Hereward.      By   Charles   Kingsley. 

Heroes  and  Hero-Worship.  By  Thos, 
Carlyle. 

Hiawatha.    By   H.   W.    Longfellow. 

rlidden  Hand.      By  Mrs.   Southworth. 

History    of    Cri-«e.      Victor    Hugo. 

History  of  Civilization  in  Europe. 
By   M.    Guizot. 

History  of  Our  Own  Times^  Vol.  I. 
By   Justin    McCarthy. 

Kistory  of  Our  0^vn  Times.  Vol. 
II.     By   Justin   McCarthy. 

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Holy  Roman  Empire.  James  Eryce. 

Homo    Sum.      By    George    Ebers. 

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thaniel   Hawthorne. 

Hunchback  of  ISotre  Dame.  By  Victor 
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Hypatia.      B>    Charles   Kingsley. 

Iceland  Fisherman.   By   Pierre   Lo... 

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Iliad,    The.      Pope's    Translation. 

Inez.     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

Ingelow's    Poems.      Jean    Ingelow. 

Intellectual  Life.     P.   G.  Hamerton. 

In   the   Golden   Days.   Edna   Lyall. 

Ishmael.      By    Mrs.    Southworth. 

It  Is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend.  By 
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Ivanhoe.      By    Sir   Walter    Scott. 

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ICenilworth,      By   Sir  Walter   Scott. 

Kidnapped.      By   R.   L.    Stevenson.( 

King  Arthur  and  His  Noble  Knights. 
By  Mary  Macleod. 


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Knight   Errant.      By   Edna   Lyall. 

Koran,    The.     Sales   Translation. 

Lady  of  the  Lake.   By   Sir  W.   Scott. 

Lafayette,  Marquis  de,  Life  of.  By 
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Lalla  Rookh.     By  Thomas  Moore. 

Lamplighter.      Marie    S.    Cummins. 

Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  By  Bulwer^ 
Lytton. 

Last   of   the   Barona.    Bulwer-Lytton. 
Last    of    tTie    Mohicans.       By     James- 

Fenimore  Cooper. 
Lee,  Gen.  Robert  E.,  Life  of.     By  G. 

Mercer    Adam. 
Lena  Rivers.     By  Mary  J.  Holmes. 
Les     Miserablcs.       Vol.     I.       By    Vic 

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Life  of  Christ.     By  F.  W.  Farrar. 
Life    of    Jesus.      By    Earnest    Renan. 
Light    of    Asia.      Sir    Edwin    Arnold. 
Light    That    Failed,    The.      By    Rud- 

yard    Kipling. 
Lincoln,      Abraham,      Life     of.        By 

Henry   Ketcham. 
Lincoln's    Speeches.        By   G.    Mercer 

Adam. 

Literature  and  Dogma.  By  Mat- 
thew   Arnold. 

Little  Dorrit.  By  Charles  Dick- 
ens. 

Little  Minister,  The.  By  James 
M.    Barrie. 

Livingstone,  David.  Life  of.  By 
Thomas   Hughes. 

Longfellow's  Poems.  H.  W.  Long- 
fellow. 

Lorna   Doone,     R.   D.   Blackmore. 
Louise       de       la       Valliere.        Alex. 
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Lowell's   Poems.     J.   Ruscll  Lowell. 
Lucile.      By    Owen    Meredith. 
Macaria.      Augusta   J.    Evans, 

Macauley's      Literary      Essays,        Byj 

T.    B.    Macauley. 
Magic  Skin.     Honore  de  Balzac. 
Mahomet,       Life       of.         Washington 

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Seneca's   Morals.  J 

Sense     and      Sensibility 


Austen, 
Sentimental        Jourr^v. 

Sterne. 
SesanM!   and    Lilllei. 


By     Jane 
Laurence 
Tohn    Ruskiii. ' 


Shakespeare's   Heroines.     Anna    Jame. 

son. 
Shelley's    Poems. 
Shirley.     By  Charlotte   Bronte. 
Sing    of    the    Four.      By    A.    Conaa 

Doyle. 
Silas  Marner.     By  George  Eliot. 
3\>nce      of      Dean      Maitland.        B* 

Maxwell    Grey. 
Sir  oibbie.      George  Macdonald. 
Sketch  Book.     By  Washington  Irving. 
Socrates,  Trial  and  Death  of. 
Soldiers  Three.     Rudyard  Kipling. 
Spy,    The.      By   James    F.    Cooper. 
Stanley,     Henry    M.,     Life    of.       By 

A.   Montefiore. 

Story  of  an  African  Farm.  By 
Olive    Schreiner. 

Story  of  John  G.  Paton.  By  Re^» 
Jas.  Paton. 

St.  Elmo.     By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

St.    Ronan's   Well.     Walter   Scott. 

Study  in  Scarlet.     A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Surgeon's  Daughter,  The.  By  Sir 
Walter   Scott. 

Swineburne's   Poems. 

Swiss  Family  Robinson.  By  Jean 
Rudolph  Wyss. 

Taking    the    Bastile,    Alex.      Dumas. 

Tale  of  Two  Cities.  Chas.  Dick- 
ens. 

Tales        from       Shakespeare.  B7 

Charles   and    Mary   Lamb. 

Tales  of  a  Traveller.  By  V/ash- 
ington  Irving. 

Talisman.     Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Tanglewood       Tales.  N.       Haw- 

thorne. 

Tempest  and  Sunshine.  By  Mary 
J.  Holmes. 

Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar  Room.     By  T.  if 

Arthur. 

Tennyson's   Poems. 

Ten  Years  Later,     Alex.   TJumas. 

Terrible  Temptation.       Charles  Reada 

Thaddeus  of  Warsaw.  By  Jane 
Porter. 

Thelma.    By  Marie  Corelli. 
Thirty    Years*    War.       By     Frederick 
Schiller. 

Thousand    Miles    Up    the    Nile-        3y 
^-    A,^„t;a  B,  Edwaias. 


BURT'S  HOME  imRARY,     Glolh.    Gili  Tops.     Price,  $!. 23 


I'lircc  Guardsmen.     Alex  Dumas. 

'J'hree  Men  in  a  Boat.     Jerome. 

Tlirift.      By   Samuel    Smiles. 

Throne  of  David.     J.  H.  Ingraham.  ^ 

Toilers  of  the  Sea.     Victor  Hugo. 

Tom  Brown  at  Oxford.  By  Thomas 
Hughes. 

Tom  Brown's  School  Days.  By 
Thos.  Hughes. 

Tour  of  the  World  in  Eighty 
Days.     By  Jules   Verne. 

Treasure  Island.  R.  L.  Steven- 
son. 

Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  Under 
the  Sea.     By  Jules  Verne. 

Twenty  Years  After.     Alex.  Dumas. 

Twice  Told  Tales.     N.   Hawthorne. 

Two  Admirals.     By  J.   F.   Cooper. 

Tivo  years  Before  the  Mast.  By 
R.   H.    Dana,  Jr. 

Uarda.     By  George   Ebers. 

Uncle  Max.     Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Urcle  Tom's  Cabin.  By  Harriet 
Beecher   Stowe. 

Under  Two    Flags.      By   "Ouida." 

Utopia.     By  Sir  Thomas  Moore. 

Vanity  Fair.     Wm.    M.   Thackery. 

Vendetta.      By   Marie   Corelli. 

Vicar  of  Wakefield.  By  Oliver 
Goldsmith. 

Vicomte  de  Bragelonne.  By  Alex- 
andre  Dumas. 

Views   A-Foot.      Bayard   Taylor. 

Villette.     By  Charlotte  Bronte. 

Virginians.     Wm.  M.  Thackeray. 

Walden.     By  Henry  D    Thoreau. 


Wandering    Jew,    The.      Vol.    I.      By 

Eugene   Sue. 
Wandering  Jew,   The.      Vol.    II.     By 

Eugcr.e   Sue. 

Washington    and    His    Generals.     By 

J.  T.   Headley. 
Washington,    George.    Life    of.      By 

Jarcd    Sparks. 
Water    Babies.      Charles   Kingsley, 
Water   Witch.      James   F.    Cooper. 
Waverly.     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Webster,       Daniel,       Life      of.        By 

Samuel  M.  Schmucker. 
Webster's  Speeches.      (Selected). 
Westward  Ho.     Charles  Kingsley. 
We   Two.      By    Edna    Lyall. 
White  Company.     A  Conan  Doyle. 
Whites  and  the  Blues.     Dumas. 
Whittier's  Poems.     J.  G.  Whittier. 
Wide       Wide      World.        By      Susan 

Vv'arner. 
William,     the      Conqueror,     Life     of. 

By   Edward  A.    Freeman. 
William,     the     Silent,     Life     of.       By 

Frederick  Harrison. 
Window  in  Thrums.     J.  M.  Barrie. 
Wing   and   Wing.      J.    F.    Cooper, 
Wolsey,      Cardinal,      Life      of.  By 

Alandell   Creighton. 
Woman  in  White.     Wilkie  Collins. 
Won   b>    Waiting.      Edna    Lyall. 
Wonder  Book.     N.  Hawthorne. 
Woodstock.     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Wordsworth's  Poems. 
Wormwood.     By  Marie  Corelli. 


